Permit Me a Father Fantasy
by writerofberk
Summary: ...Really, that's all he's asking for. Collection of drabbles and one-shots exploring Jim and Silver's father/son relationship. Will be updated whenever I feel like it. (Includes strong language, hurt!Jim, drunken underage teenagers, shameless fluff, shameless angst, and long-ass ANs.)
1. Jacket

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: DISCLAIMER: I don't own Treasure Planet, Jim Hawkins, or Long John Silver. Wish I did, but I don't. I ALSO don't own this title. This is actually the title for a chapter in a book: _You Don't Know Me_ by David Klass. The title of this story belongs completely one hundred percent to him, and I only wish I possessed his writer prowess. And the best way to get to his level is to keep writing. So. **

**Also, this is gonna be a collection of drabbles and one-shots, and most of it's gonna be my own work, as as warning. I like novelizations of movies pretty well, but I prefer to write original content. I just needed to write this scene, because I only just noticed recently that Jim's wearing his jacket again in the Silver's Speech scene, and I needed to expound upon that. And since my brain can't leave well enough alone, I've also been making up headcanons about his jacket; it's obvious he wears it when he's not in a good place, but I needed to know where he got it and whatnot. So I made up my own story to explain it. I also noticed other things in the film that I never did before that hit me like a ton of bricks, so I'll probably be doing those in later chapters. This is just gonna be filled to the brink with Jim/Silver father/son interaction, so for those of you who prefer the romance, or those of you who despise Silver, I'd suggest you go elsewhere. (Honestly though who can hate Silver he's the best stand-in dad in the universe)**

 **And if any of you have been reading my Treasure Planet fic _Listen_ , I ask you to ignore my huge absence on it. I'm working on chapter five, and it should be upppp in like February. Sometime. Perhaps at the end of February. Just bear with me, guys, I'm trying to get the plot to work. **

**Also, this first chapter is from Jim's POV, first person, but that's not going to be a regular thing with this fic, just so you know. I came up with the first couple paragraphs in my head exactly as they are, and I worried that if I tried to write them in third person, it'd lose something. So next chapter SHOULD be third person. (It just feels really natural to write Jim from first-person, because I connect really well with him and yeah. So. I hope you like this.) What am I doing starting all these new stories like I don't even have the time for ninety percent of them... Eh, well. I'll try to update chapter 2 SOON this will not end up like _Listen_ I promise. **

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I guess you could say I wore the jacket when things weren't going too well for me.

It was the only thing Dad had left behind when he took off, and it still carried his scent; at first, I just slept with it, fanning it over myself like a blanket, wrapping it around my own small shoulders, burying my nose in the collar, balling it up beneath my head like a pillow, hiding it beneath the blankets whenever I had to rise; I didn't want Mom to find it. The days right after he left were blurry to me, at best; really, what I remembered most was endless nights lying curled up with the jacket, hugging it to my chest, clutching it tight in small, shaking hands as tears streamed down my cheeks, my own voice, barely above a whisper, carrying across the room. "Why did he leave? Why doesn't he want me? What did I do? Why did he go?"

I never had an answer.

When I started actually wearing the jacket outside the house, I was careful to take it off before entering the inn; the sight of it would probably make Mom cry or something, and…well, she wasn't happy, no, but there were moments in which she almost smiled, and whole days in which she never cried at all.

And this is going to sound crazy, but after a little while, I wore the jacket everywhere. Even around Mom. Because…I couldn't take it off. It was kind of like a security blanket to me, in a way. I needed it. I couldn't take it off. The jacket became my source of strength; though the scent of Dad had long since faded from the aged cloth, I clung to it like a stubborn child, as if I thought I could make him come back to us if I just wore it long enough.

The idea of losing the jacket actually filled me with dread and panic; I needed it, needed to hide in it and lose myself in it, because when it wasn't hanging around my shoulders, when I couldn't use it as a barrier between myself and the world, I felt naked and weak, exposed and vulnerable.

The attachment I felt toward it was actually kind of stupid, looking back on it; but when I entered the ship, I drew it tighter around myself and glared at everyone who looked my way. If I hated them first, if I judged them first, then when they judged me back, it wouldn't bother me so much.

When Silver started teaching me about the ship, like the different knots I could use or how to scrape the barnacles off the side, I thought I'd be wearing it for the rest of the voyage. I slept in it, even, curled up in my hammock with it still wrapped around my body; but after a little while, after sleepless nights spent listening to Silver's wild stories, after silently savoring the attention when he wrapped an arm around me, after hours spent learning how to tie sails and cook meals (Silver's "secret ingredient" was copious amounts of beer), I awoke one morning, and the jacket was in a crumpled heap beside me. I made to rise from the hammock, but I kept glancing back at it, running my fingers over it, wondering if I'd need a barrier today, wondering if I'd need protection.

Finally, a little nervous, I left the room without it. And you know what? I didn't need it. I didn't need the strength or protection the jacket offered me. Because now I had my own, in the form of the cook.

I didn't even touch the jacket for weeks after that. I didn't need it. I might not even need to hide in it; I hadn't screwed up in what felt like forever, hadn't done anything wrong, hadn't gotten into trouble, except when I'd angered that spider…creep.

For the first time in a long time, I didn't have anything to hide from. And it felt so good.

Well. That was over now. The weight of it was comforting around my shoulders. I hadn't missed it a bit, but I was glad I'd brought it. Should have known I'd screw up here and need it again.

The rough surface of the rope scraped against my fingers with every new knot I created, but I had to keep doing them, keep undoing them, then redoing them, because if I'd just done this earlier, when it really _counted_ , Mr. Arrow would still be here, and I wouldn't be _useless_ …

Uneven footsteps pounding on the deck below me had me glancing down for a minute. Silver. He came to stand by the rail, jamming his pipe between his teeth. The silence between us lasted for a few seconds, but to me it felt like an eternity. He couldn't even look at me, probably. Could hardly bear to speak to me. Because I'd actually killed someone this time. All the stuff I'd done back home on Montressor seemed like nothing compared to this. This wasn't like riding into an off-limits area on my solar surfer just to irritate the cops. This had actually hurt someone. Because I'd been stupid and careless and hadn't checked that one lifeline, and I thought I had, but it did no good, I couldn't do anything…

"It weren't your fault, you know." In the silence, his voice seemed ten times louder than it normally would, and I closed my eyes. No, Silver didn't hate me, like the others, but he was trying to make me feel better, but nothing could make this better.

So I just stayed quiet, undoing my last knot and immediately redoing it, staring down at the small piece of rope in my hands, a fragment of his lifeline. If I'd just checked to make _sure_ …

"Why, half the crew would be spinning in that black abyss—

"Look, don't you get it?!" I couldn't stand him talking like that, talking about it and Mr. Arrow and a black abyss and lifelines and the crew. I needed him to shut up. So I threw the rope as far as I could, watching it hurtle away into space. I leaped from my spot on the masts, landing on the rail instead. "I screwed up! I mean, for once, I thought that maybe, I could do something right! I just…" I was spilling more than I meant to, and I had to stop. Had to shut up. If the man before me ever saw what a wreck I really was underneath the surface… "Just…forget it." I leaned against the nearest mast, turning away from him. I couldn't keep looking at him anymore. I could feel the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, and I reached to brush them away with my jacket sleeve. I should never have taken it off.

There was another silence between us, and in it, I thought maybe Silver really had glimpsed the true mess I hid. Maybe he was going to walk away now. Maybe he was going to leave. It wouldn't be the first time.

"No." And suddenly, his hand was on my shoulder and he was forcing me to look at him. What did he want now, didn't he get it yet, I was a screw-up, I was useless. "You listen to me, James Hawkins."

Looking back, I could never say if it was the tone of his voice or the use of my real name that rooted me to the spot, all my anger and strength deserting me again. Even the jacket offered me no comfort.

He slung an arm around me, jabbing his cyborg finger into my chest as he spoke. "Ya got the makings of greatness in ya!"

What? I'd been stupid, I'd failed to check the lifelines, I was responsible for the loss of the first mate…there was nothing great in me. Nothing.

"But you gotta take the helm and chart your own course!" Silver did a hand motion, like he was steering a ship, and the gesture was so him that it almost hurt to watch. "Stick to it, no matter the squalls! And when the time comes, you get the chance to really test the cut of your sails, and show what you're made of…"

I waited, breathless for a minute, as he stood with arms outstretched, like he could see the future me even now, and ached to be a part of that time. My throat constricted as I waited for him to finish.

"…well…I hope I'm there…" he still wasn't looking at me; just gazed up at the starry sky over our heads, reaching out like he hoped to grasp some sort of shine, like he planned to grab a star itself out of the night skies. He stood like he was in awe, and the tears pushed against my eyes again. No one should ever be in awe of me. "…catching some of the light coming off you that day."

That did it.

I couldn't keep the tears back anymore; they welled up, blurring my vision, streaking down my cheeks, and I fell against Silver, leaning my forehead on his chest, feeling my legs beginning to fail, the last of my strength deserting me. I hadn't cried for so long that now sobs burst out of me, real and raw and unstoppable, and for the first time since I'd realized I loved him, I wasn't worried he was going to leave me, too. I just kept standing there, tears pouring down my face, and I didn't try to stop them or wipe them away, because that would be pointless. He was rigid and unmoving as I cried into him, and it occurred to me in a kind of vague, distant way that I was probably making him uncomfortable, or else he wanted me to stop bawling all over him like a little kid, but even as I moved to pull away, wipe the tears and apologize, he suddenly wrapped his arms around me, and he pulled me closer, hugging me.

His warm embrace, his cheek resting on my hair, and his quiet voice, whispering to me, "Jimbo, it's alright…it's alright…"

It broke me again. I responded to his hug, and I clung to him, hands fisting, clenching the white shirt in my fingers. All that mattered in that moment was that he never, ever let me go. I could feel the tears leaving my eyes, dropping onto his shirt, but I didn't want to move or anything that might risk us having to pull apart.

We did, though. We did break the hug after a minute. Well, he broke it, placing his hands on my shoulders and holding me at arm's length. When he smiled at me, it looked sort of watery. "W-well…I…uh…Jimbo…" he laughed, a little nervously, and quickly removed his hands, straightening his hat. "I best be getting about my watch…and you best be getting some shut-eye." He put a gentle hand on my back, guiding me toward the steps.

At the top of the staircase, I turned to look at him. I couldn't stop looking at him. I was suddenly afraid that if I did, he'd disappear, and these past ten minutes would never have happened, and I'd still be sitting there, undoing and redoing knots. For the first time all night, I smiled when his gaze met mine, his words glowing within me like stars. _"You got the makings of greatness in ya…"_

But I would rather have had the words in my heart than all the stars in the world in my hands.

Somehow, I didn't think I'd need the jacket for awhile.


	2. Treasure

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: Okay, so in my defense, I know this is not the original content I talked about, but tbh my original content is pretty shit. Like I'm not even kidding. But like I said in chapter 1, the only way to get to the level of like J.K. Rowling or David Klass is to keep writing. So even though my work at this point in time is laughable compared to most others', I'm hoping one day that will change. So I'll keep going, and if you like this, then you can keep reading! As a warning, this new chapter is just pure schmaltz xD it's disgustingly sentimental, really. xD Reviews are helpful and always appreciated; criticism is useful feedback; flames will be ignored, because I already know I'm a shitty writer. If you happen to notice an issue, please state it politely; I have a very low tolerance for discourtesy.**

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Silver had gotten very good, over the years, at seeing people as objects.

After a bit of time, he fell into the habit automatically, assigning every unfamiliar face to a kind of boat, a kind of metal or fabric or spice, because then when he stole from them or hurt them, it was just like denting metal or crashing a skiff, and it didn't matter because they weren't real, they couldn't feel it.

From the instant he'd boarded the _Legacy_ , he knew he'd have to hurt everyone there.

So he made them objects.

The captain came first, and she was a knife. Cool and brutal, sharp and quick, but beautiful, too, in her own way. Savage enough to break the skin and draw blood, dangerous enough to cause a bit of pain; yes, somebody to watch out for, definitely.

The doctor? Frankly, the canine baffled Silver a bit. If what he'd said was true, he was a celebrated astrophysicist with about a thousand credentials, but if he had the brains for it, he had yet to display them. Incapable, incompetent, inadequate…the list went on, and the cyborg was a bit too eager to continue.

But the boy…oh, the boy…he was a bit like a pot, a rusty pot, if truth be told. A rough, dark surface barely hiding the dull shine underneath. Silver sensed something more within him, a true and raw potential, and if he were to sit down for a day or two and scrub at that rust, maybe it would flake off at last, and the boy would reach that potential. The cook had a feeling the kid had never even tried before, might not even know what hid within him.

As the voyage commenced, his view of the boy had changed – there was excitement in his eyes, a flush in his cheeks, a bright hope in his voice, a secret hidden hurt in his heart, and when they came together, all at once, they formed something more significant than just a pot.

It was a slap in the face to Silver when the boy spoke of his father. It confirmed a truth the cook would have gladly hidden from; the lad used to have a _life_. He'd had hopes, dreams, plans for himself and his future; he had fears and insecurities, likes and dislikes, and he drank coffee in the mornings and helped his mother at her inn in the afternoons, and rode his solar surfer among the stars at three o' clock in the morning, when he couldn't sleep. He'd had a life. He hadn't just sprung into being, fifteen years old and furious at the world. He had a past.

Suddenly, he wasn't a faceless, nameless cabin boy – he was Jimbo, the brilliant and reckless lad who spent too much time brooding in the crow's nest and not nearly enough scrubbing the deck as Silver had told him to.

In an effort to appease a burning conscience, the cook had amended his statement – the lad was not just a pot, he was the cyborg's favorite copper pot. A bit rusty, slightly chipped, maybe battered, but still good and shiny and beautiful.

And every hour spent in the kid's company, every smile they shared or joke they told, every laugh they had together, every meal they prepared, it was all just scraping off the rust, and it wasn't important and it didn't matter and when the time came for the mutiny, he'd just be a pot and he'd feel nothing, but all the same, Silver would try to keep it quick because he liked his copper pot quite a bit and if given the choice, he would leave it untouched, unharmed.

But even if, when he'd finished scraping all of the rust off and the lad shone brighter than ever…if, even then, he refused to leave the boy's side…well…he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

On the night of Mr. Arrow's death, Silver nearly blew the whole thing. Because somewhere between securing lifelines and crying into the cook's chest, the lad became a person. For an instant, when he wrapped his arms around the kid and whispered every assurance he knew, the teenager's warm weight was a wake-up call. He was real, and he was _desperate_ and _lonely_ and _crying,_ sobbing softly into the thin white shirt, feeling useless and blaming himself, and damn Scroop for making him think he wasn't good enough, damn the whole world for making this boy believe he was good-for-nothing, and damn that father of his, for walking away from him, abandoning him, depriving him of every experience that he should have had, that he deserved.

There was a minute in which Silver simply could not fathom why anyone would choose to hurt this boy, and why so many had.

The instant he'd realized where his train of thought was going, he pushed the kid away, firm but gentle, and dismissed him as quickly as he could. Jimbo was nothing, nothing, a copper pot, cold and unfeeling and metal, and everyone in the whole damn galaxy could hurt this kid if they wished and Silver wouldn't stop them, because pots didn't need saviors.

Yet even, when they had been discovered, and the lad had spoken the truth to the captain, even when the kid stabbed him in the leg or stole the map right out from under him…even when Silver raised his gun and locked it onto the retreating back, preparing to fire – _c'mon, you can do it, it's just a bullet, you've used this gun plenty of times, kid won't even feel it if you aim right, and then you'll have the map_ – he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. He couldn't.

Later, he was furious with himself. The boy was just a pot – useful, maybe, and shiny, a nice trinket to gaze upon, but still just a thing, a pretty possession to sit upon a shelf and collect dust and were it to fall and hit the floor, it'd just be dented, no real damage done. And if ever it did get broken, well, Silver would miss it certainly, but there were a million other pots out there.

So he met the lad's eyes and spoke truthfully. "I like ya, lad," and he did, because the copper pot was his favorite… "But I've come too far to let ya stand between me and me treasure." …but there were a million other pots out there.

When he took a step forward, the boy responded instantly, stepping back – there was a breathless millisecond in which he was cornered, back to the wheel, nowhere to go, and Silver waited for the blade to fall, readied his cyborg hand to defend, but the second passed and the lad made no move to use the sword in his shaking hands.

A sudden shockwave rocked the boat, sending both the cook and the cabin boy tumbling off the deck, onto a nearby platform of smooth metal. Silver very nearly went sliding off, but managed to hastily save himself, gripping the metal very tightly between his flesh fingers. Remembering the treasure – he had not come this far just to fail – he glanced up, heart jumping into his throat as he saw the flames eating into the fortune awaiting him on the deck, his fortune, his treasure, he'd fought for it and schemed for it… Silver felt a snarl curling his wasted lips. "Oh, no, you don't!" The world had taken his leg, his arm, his eye…it wasn't taking his treasure, too. Not if he could help it.

Gripping the side of the boat with all the strength in his cyborg hand, Silver was seconds away from towing it to the platform, retrieving his treasure at last, when Morph distracted him; squeaking urgently, the pink creature darted swiftly in front of his face.

Sweat pouring down his forehead in thick streams, Silver rasped with dry throat, "What? What is it?" He glanced back instantly, toward the other end of the platform, but there was not a soul to be seen; so he looked farther, his cyborg eye focused in on… "Jimbo!"

The lad had evidently fallen from the platform; now, dangling precariously from a slippery groove with trembling fingers, he hung only feet above the frothing, burning orange abyss.

Something more than shock ripped through the pirate at the sight – it was fear, genuine and raw, rising up into his throat and choking him. The boy was so close to falling, any moment now he would, plunging into that lava, foaming and boiling…

No. He couldn't let that happen. If a pot threatens to fall from a shelf, do you not do your best to save it before it hits the ground? "Jimbo! Grab hold!"

The boy immediately extended a hand, panic and desperation in his widened eyes, arms straining, fingers slipping, chest heaving, and falling just short…

"Reach!" Silver bellowed at the top of his lungs, as if he thought he could physically bridge the gap through the word alone.

"I can't!" The fear in the youthful voice sounded genuine; the lad was struggling, never once quit trying to grasp the other's fingers.

 _Change of plans._

Silver was good at these. So he extended his cyborg arm just enough, towing the boat even closer to the platform; then he slid a bit closer to the edge, reaching…reaching…

And the boy fell…

 _No, no, no, please, you can't take him away, too, not Jim, not my Jimbo, not after everything else, please, please…_

…and then he caught himself on another notch in the wall, and Silver's world was still intact.

He still wasn't safe, though; Silver could see the tension in the tanned arms, the struggle to lift himself higher, and he kept slipping, and he wasn't going to make it, and the pirate should have been looking at his treasure, drinking in the sight, but he couldn't take his eyes off the cabin boy, the pot balancing on the extreme edge of the shelf, and threatening to fall. And he would. He couldn't hold on for five minutes, much less long enough for Silver to tow the boat safely to the platform and then grab hold of him. Even now, he trembled, sliding down the length of the groove, arms shaking, breathing heavy with the strength and exertion required.

At that moment, a single golden coin fell onto Silver's flesh hand.

And there was something about the sensation – something _cool_ and _weighty_ and _metallic_ – that made him realize the full truth of his surroundings. If the pot slipped, if it fell, it would not merely be dented, it would be broken, shattered beyond repair, and it was not balancing on the extreme edge and— _copper pots be damned, his boy needed him,_ and he could not stand another moment of this breathless indecision.

Silver released the boat.

With the last remnants of his strength, the cyborg threw himself to the edge of the platform, and things happened so fast he could not have said whether the lad fell first or he extended a hand before. All he knew was a moment of consuming terror, and then there was a rough, small hand in his, and everything was okay and the world was right again.

As quickly as he could, lest he or the boy lose their strength, he hauled Jim up onto the platform beside him, and for a moment, they both resumed their positions, drawing in deep, ragged gasps; and both cyborg and child could scarcely believe the former's decision.

The boat's fate drew their attention again. For an instant, the sky above their heads was alive with colors, blazing orange and yellow and red, mixing and swirling to create frothing clouds of lava and flame, the sound growing to an almost unbearable volume, the light growing almost too bright for the watching eyes, the force shaking their tiny platform so much, it nearly sent them over the edge once more.

And the ship exploded, sending a shower of gold coins and splintered wood over them; he saw the lad attempting to shield himself from the falling debris. Even after the remnants appeared well and truly dispersed, the two waited for a minute; finally, Silver rose to his mismatched feet, shaking slightly, glancing around. Aside from them, the planet was barren and deserted; all others had fled, and the last of the treasure had just been destroyed. A glance at the boy at his side was all it took to erase any regret.

He helped the boy to his feet, and together they raced for the portal, emerging, gasping on the other side.

The boy lifted his head; there was incredulity and admiration in his voice when he spoke to the cyborg. "Silver! You gave up?"

"Just a lifelong obsession, Jim, I'll get over it." And Silver knew it was true, because it had been nothing – and at the same time, everything – that he'd expected. It had been treasure, in a sense – piles upon piles of thick golden coins and sparkling, multi-colored jewels, swords with diamond-encrusted hilts, and silver adornments: earrings, bracelets, necklaces, beautiful items, truly…but there had been something wrong with them, and he remembered thinking that, even as he picked up a jewel and buried his hands in the gold, cradling it close to his chest like a beloved, fussing child. And even then, staring at his own reflection in the gleaming surface, there had been something wrong, and he'd known it.

He'd dismissed the feeling, submerged himself completely in the wonderful, glistening treasure laying all about, held the coins to his face and the necklaces to lips, pressing a kiss to the pendant. But against his fingers, the coins were cold. And it felt so _wrong_.

Only now, looking into the tanned, smiling face, remembering the hand gripping his firmly, the weight of the boy's thin body against his, did he realize that the treasure had lacked the warmth he'd been expecting. He'd thought, strangely, that the gold would have a kind of inner glow, like sunshine trapped in the metal. He'd desired the gold, worshipped it like a god and loved it like a fellow being. But gold was just metal, unfeeling and empty, and when he touched it, there had been no warmth to it. There had been thousands and thousands of coins on that planet. And there were a million copper pots in the marketplace.

But there was only one Jim Hawkins.

And he was the only treasure Silver would ever need.


	3. Permit Me a Father Fantasy

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: OKAY SHUSH I KNOW THIS WOULD NEVER HAPPEN IN CANON BUT SHUSH LET ME HAVE THIS ;-;**

 **So this was partially inspired by the title and also because it promised some adorableness and some feels and some angst and some h/c (it doesn't actually have any of that xD) though there's not as much of the comfort as I wanted, it's more like ehhh hey guess what Jimbo I like ya but I'm also gonna step on the pieces of your soul. Anyway. I know this is like wildly OOC and crappy and just bleh, but I don't even...like...just let me have this.**

 **Also, I was thinking a bit, I guess, of the ending, when Jim is trying to build that solar surfer to open the portal, and Silver just rushes right over and says, "What do you need, Jimbo?" Like My HEArT. I mean, it was a pressured moment, but it was also a cute one. I NEED IT xDDD**

 **Quick warning, there's some pretty strong language in this chapter.**

 **Next chapter will be called _Family Matters_ and feature some injured!Jim and hopefully some feels. But it will also be long, about the length of this one, so it'll take me a bit to write.**

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"Mr. Silver?"

Halfway through thinly slicing a potato, the cook froze where he stood in the galley.

"Mr. Silver?" The stone-faced first mate appeared at the bottom of the stairway leading into the galley, his voice, as usual, stern and deep and unwavering; the cyborg winced, pushing away from the stove and striving for an open, cheerful smile. Sea cooks very rarely received visits from the first mate, and the times he had, the latter had come bearing unarguably bad news. Well…Jimbo becoming his cabin boy had _seemed_ like bad news at first, but…

"Mr. Silver?" Mr. Arrow repeated himself for the third time, and the cook forced himself back into reality.

"Why, Mr. Arrow, sir," he tried for a light, brisk tone when he spoke, placing the potato on a plate nearby and reaching for a dishcloth to wipe his hand. "To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit to my humble galley?"

"The captain asks," Mr. Arrow responded tonelessly, and with enough of an emphasis on the last word to alert Silver to the fact that _asks_ really meant _demands_ , "that you entrust your cabin boy with a task."

"…Sir?" The cook replied, confused.

"In her words, he's been gamboling about all morning with indecent enthusiasm," Mr. Arrow elaborated sternly. "And he has created sparks once or twice. Naturally, she is concerned."

" _Ah_." The cyborg's smile slipped as he raked his real hand tiredly down the length of his browned face. "Aye, sir. Right away, sir."

Mr. Arrow disappeared, and Silver let loose a low sigh. The truth was, he _had_ given Jimbo a job two hours ago – the kid had been practically _mutilating_ his poor potatoes, he was so restless and distracted, so Silver had sent him up to the deck with strict orders to make an inventory of the rations aboard and return with a written list in hand. Apparently, the lad had gotten…sidetracked.

The cook pushed away from the stove, abandoning the pile of sliced potatoes, and hurried up the steps to the deck; would this kid never learn the lesson of follow-through? He'd been getting better, as of late, when it came to completing his tasks on time, and he'd stopped wearing that huge black jacket and stopped glaring so much and started laughing and talking quite a bit more, but if this was an indication that he was sliding back into his old ways…

There he was.

Silver would have liked to be stern; would have liked to read the kid the riot act right there, started scolding him about the importance of starting and completing duties, but the sight of the lad, with his soot-smudged nose and thin, pinched lips and brows drawn down, eyes narrowed in intense concentration, gazing down at the shining metal sheet, the cook couldn't help the smile that flickered across his own face. He banished it quickly enough; if he showed any sign of pleasure or mirth, the kid knew he wasn't really angry and thus never took him seriously. He firmed his lips and all but stomped over to the boy, stretching his lips into a snarl. "Jimbo!"

"Mm?"

"What are ye _doin'_ , lad? I told ya to get me an inventory o' the ship's rations! What is this—?"

"I made the list already," the boy stuffed a piece of tattered, unused canvas sail in his mouth and spoke around it, "but then I got an idea—this tastes like soured milk," he interrupted himself, yanking the sail from his lips once more, face twisting in disgust. "Hold on, the list is in my pocket…I just started thinking..." He turned the sheet of metal over, and Silver could see now that the lad was fashioning a solar surfer; it was obviously unfinished, the cyborg could see this by the empty spaces for the thrusters. "…You know how this ship has artificial gravity? And if we turned it off or jumped overboard, we'd fall up?"

"Yeah…" Silver replied cautiously, interested in spite of himself.

"Well, I figured I could get some artificial gravity going on a solar surfer, right? I mean, I have all the materials here to build one – not a welding torch, though, should have thought of that…I'll figure it out. But I figured…I mean, it'd be cool, right?" The kid grabbed a wrench off the deck, turning to face the cook as he spoke. "Only thing is, I don't think I can actually recreate the artificial gravity – I know the theory, but I can't… _do_ it."

To tell the truth, Silver was now completely immersed in the problem with the boy, and grudgingly impressed at the skill displayed in the mechanism before him. "Well, ya could speak wit' the cap'n," he suggested, after a moment of thought. "I know th' Legacy has backups o' jus' abou' everythin', and I'd be willin' to bet my bes' pipe that she'll have a battery or somethin' for the gravity."

"You think?" the kid brightened immediately, rising to his feet. "I don't know, isn't going into her stateroom kind of like walking into a lion's den?"

The cook managed to bite back his laughter, out of fear that it would draw attention; however, he simply couldn't suppress a smile. "You're righ' there, lad."

But evidently, the boy had been in earnest; he cast a slightly nervous look at her stateroom door, chewing his lip.

"Why don' ya leave it to me?" Silver offered suddenly. "I know how t' talk t' th' lioness." He winked, making the boy chuckle. "Ya jus' leave it t' me." Then, remembering he was supposed to be stern, he added, "And leave tha' lis' in th' galley, or heaven help ya!"

* * *

The cook and the cabin boy spent the better part of a week perfecting the solar surfer. Silver would be the first to admit that he did not have the head for mechanics – he fully expected to find himself lost within the hour, but the machine's complexities seemed almost...simple, somehow. He actually found himself almost as eager as Jimbo to work on it most mornings. Of course, he couldn't let the kid know that; he tried to keep a list of constant chores for the boy, but two days in, this fell by the wayside – the only duties expected of the lad nowadays were helping to prepare meals and washing dishes. It was fitting, Silver supposed, considering the amount of time Jimbo dedicated to the surfer.

On the third day, they moved their work to the galley, not least because the captain seemed to have figured out what they were really using her backup battery for, and both man and boy were concerned that she might demand its return.

On the fourth day, most of the work seemed to be completed, until Jim reminded him of the notable lack of thrusters or sail. The fifth day, Jimbo spent adding a few finishing touches here and there, polishing the surface while Silver tested the various gears to be sure they functioned properly.

On the dawning of the sixth day, the cook did not even have to stop by the cabin boy's hammock to rouse him; they woke together, working clear through the sunrise, exchanging playful banter or terrible jokes; privately, the cyborg noted Jimbo's wide smile and sparkling eyes, and insisted these things did not please him in the least.

When the sun had risen fully and the final bit of work was done, the two brought the result of their toil up to the deck, occasionally banging into things and shushing each other in laughing whispers, trying not to rouse any of the crew before they performed their test run. At last, with a groan of relief from both, they settled the glistening metal upon the deck, and the lad climbed on with no hesitation, bending a moment to balance before standing upright once more.

"A'right, now, be quick abou' it, lad," Silver warned the excited boy. "If ya think th' battery's not workin', ya come back sharpish."

"Alright." There was no reluctance or fear in the lad's eyes, only anticipation. "Step back a little."

In a rare moment of obedience, the cook did as bid, retreating a few paces. When Jim seemed satisfied with the distance, he hit the power button, and the solar surfer came to life under him, rising tremulously a few feet off the deck. It hung suspended in this manner for a few moments before Jim put on a burst of speed, and the mechanism shot forward several feet, over the railing of the ship. There was now nothing but the battery pumping within the mechanical body to keep the lad from floating up into space.

For an instant, both held their breath, as if expecting their luck to run out, their efforts to be for naught, but the battery worked, and the lad remained there, unmoving and perfectly safe.

"Yes! We did it!" Jimbo laughed triumphantly, doing a sudden, complicated flip in midair, turning upside down and pumping a fist over his head. Once he had righted himself again, the boy rapidly circled the Legacy twice, letting out noises of excitement every now and then that he tried to stifle. "We did it!" he repeated, parking the solar surfer right next to the cook and allowing the cyborg to be eye-level with him.

He powered the machine off again, hopping down to the deck.

"Aye," the cook nodded, unable to keep a smile off his face. "We did it, lad."

There was silence between them for a moment.

"We'd best be startin' on breakfast, lad," Silver spoke at last. "Hungry crews are nothin' to play wit'. The las' captain I worked for, he used me as targe' practice when I didn' serve his crew on time." The cyborg chuckled at his own words, placing an arm around the boy's small shoulders and leading him down the steps to the galley.

They prepared the meal in companionable silence, but when the plates had been served and nearly all the dishes scrubbed, the cook spoke at last. "Ya know, lad, las' week, ya really did a number on those potatoes."

"Sorry." The apology was not spoken resentfully; the defiance, the disregard for authority, the attitude the boy had worn like a beloved garment had fallen away. "I thought you'd forget about them, to be honest."

"Though' ya could pull the wool o'er John Silver's eyes, did ya?" The cyborg shook his head with a chuckle. "Can't do it, lad, I'm warnin' ya. And since those potatoes were damn near unusable when ya were finished wit' 'em, well…ye aren't goin' to be slicin' no more, right? Fact, I 'spect ya to stay clean out o' th' galley when I'm cuttin' 'em." Here, he allowed a smile to cross his face. "When ya see 'em, hop on tha' solar surfer to protect 'em."

The mildly abashed expression on the lad's face immediately transformed into the kind of smile that could only be described as a beam. _"Really?"_

"Did a good bi' o' work on it myself, didn't I?" demanded the cook, playing at anger. "Be right galled if ya didn't use it."

The boy actually leaped off the crate serving as his seat in his excitement. "Wow, _thanks,_ Dad!"

The cyborg stood absolutely still. Jimbo did not, at first, realize anything out of the ordinary had been said; still clutching his soapy brush, the lad smiled distantly into space for a second, perhaps entertaining pleasant fantasies of solar surfing.

When the realization hit him, Silver knew it; the lad's blue eyes widened, a blush rapidly beginning in his cheeks. He stared at the cyborg in silence for a moment and then, as if remembering himself, flung the brush and dirty plate away, ignoring the shatter as the ceramic broke into pieces. He raced for the galley steps, and Silver's soft call was lost, only the wooden walls hearing what fell from his lips. "Jimbo…"

* * *

It was a changed Jim Hawkins that wandered the ship the next seven days. His oversized black jacket had returned to its place around his shoulders, a perpetual scowl darkened his features, and he refused to even so much as look at the cook. The solar surfer he had built was much neglected, and it seemed he did not even want to look at the project; he spent much of his time brooding in the shrouds, staring out into vast, empty space and ignoring anyone who tried to speak with him.

There was a curious mixture of shame, anger, and burning guilt whenever Silver allowed his thoughts to stray to the lad in the shrouds. So reluctant was he to approach the other that the cook even failed to assign his cabin boy trivial chores; he simply let the boy be. Oh, he knew he should attempt conversation with the lad, however thoroughly his efforts would be disdained; but even the mere thought of approaching the kid again, and trying to make light of the incident in the galley, made the gruff, cutthroat pirate want to turn and run. It was a humbling realization to be sure – a mere child, a boy of fifteen, and the idea of extending the hand of communications to him, was all it took to leave the confident cook tongue-tied. Whatever had happened to the heartless, brutal, murdering captain he had been when he'd boarded this ship? He should be kept awake with thoughts of the planet they were hoping to reach, the treasure that would, at last, be his; instead, he lay awake and thought of the cabin boy, his wide, startled eyes, his flushing cheeks, suddenly taking to his feet and flinging the dish with all his might before exiting the galley as quickly as his legs could carry him.

And why, the cyborg wondered endlessly, why had the lad said that? It was true that he lacked a father, a role model to look up to and admire; it was true that Silver sometimes reckoned the kid needed a man's steady hand to guide him in his path, somebody to teach him to pick his fights and rescue him from scrapes; the kind of soul who would be glad to provide the affection and education that a father ordinarily gave to his son...

But he was _not_ it.

If the kid actually saw him like that, actually did view him as a kind of second chance at a father, then so help him, he would…

He was a pirate, for crying out loud! He was wanted on sixteen different planets by now! He lived on the run! He classified a "good day" as a day in which he avoided law enforcement officers, managed to fill his stomach, and caught more than three hours' sleep. He was no one's role model. No one should admire him or the way in which he lived.

This led the cyborg to another conclusion: perhaps the boy had simply misspoken. Perhaps he had been thinking of his own father, and said the word without real regard to its meaning, or whom he was speaking to. Perhaps, then, he had fled the galley out of nothing more than a spot of childish embarrassment. Though this did raise the question of why the lad's thoughts had strayed to his father when speaking to Silver…not to mention, if it had been a simple slip of the tongue, Jimbo would have returned to the galley by now with an apologetic shrug and shy smile. And he still remained, a silent vigil in the shrouds.

For the first time in his life, the cook was completely at a loss. Even if he wouldn't admit it, even to himself, the cyborg longed to regain the easy, open talk they had achieved when working on the surfer. But the boy showed no sign of ceasing his campaign of silence toward the other, and Silver knew without a doubt that if he wanted to fix things, he must begin to bridge the gap himself.

Even this desire did not sway him until he recalled how he had satisfied the crew as of late; when they questioned him, and the time he spent with the kid, he had soothed their fears – told them of course he must cozy up to the boy, of course he must do whatever he could to keep him off the scent, he must make sure the boy had no inkling, no real idea of what was to happen when they reached the planet… If the rest of the crew saw them now, avoiding each other as determinedly as possible, there would be questions. And everything would go to hell. Silver must speak with the lad. And no, neither of them had a choice.

The lad had climbed up into the crow's nest tonight.

Even from his place on the deck, the cook could see the dark expression on the kid's face as he gazed out at the stars, legs drawn close to his chest, as if to make himself appear as small as possible; he had one arm wrapped loosely around his own knees, and there he sat, a silent storm all his own.

Silver steeled himself, resting an elbow as casually as he could on the railing. He could do this. It wasn't that hard. All he had to do was talk. And keep talking. And hopefully, the kid would respond. "Jimbo."

There was a minute of silence, and Silver counted the seconds. The lad at last heaved a small sigh and rose to his feet, sliding effortlessly down the shrouds and coming to a stop at the bottom. When he had reached the deck, he walked right past the other without a word or glance to indicate that anything had been said at all.

"Jimbo." Silver turned, extending a hand to stop the boy; his fingers clenched around the sleeve of his jacket, forcing the other to pause.

"Let go." His voice sounded odd from lack of use.

"Not yet, lad," the cyborg refused, coming around to stand in front of the kid, "not until ya hear what I got to say, withou' interruptin' or takin' off."

It was as if Silver had released the power of a hurricane with these words. "I don't want to hear it! Let me go!"

"Lad—

"I get it, alright? So you can let me go and stop…stop t-talking to me, alright, I don't care anymore, you can just tell me what you need me to do and I'll mop the deck and clean the dishes and you don't even have to look at me, I get it, so let me go!"

"I think ya'd do be'er to wait, and le' me talk for a bit firs'," the cook responded firmly.

"I get it! I know what I did, but you don't have to feel sorry for me anymore! Just take your fucking pity and get away from me, I don't want it!" The boy was shaking in the cyborg's grip, jerking his arm, trying to wrench himself free, the words pouring out of him so fast, so thick, so full of emotion that he appeared unable to stop himself.

"I wish ya hadn't said it," Silver began, and this was perfectly true.

"Don't feel bad for me! You don't have to feel bad for me! I'm doing just fucking fine without him!"

"Lad." The tone the cook used then left no room for arguments. "Shu' up for two seconds, and le' me speak."

"Goddamn it!" The boy took a step back, struggling to break free of the hand on his arm. "Let me go, asshole!"

"Jimbo." Calm was the last thing Silver felt, but somehow, he managed to sound nothing but. "Do ya want the res' o' the crew to hear this, or do ya want me to deal wit' it quietly?"

This, at last, seemed to pierce through the lad's fog of fury; he ceased the struggle, going almost limp, and turned his gaze instead to the deck.

"Tha's what I though'," Silver dropped his voice a bit, and continued, speaking quickly lest the teenager decide to start shouting and swearing again. "Now, what ya said back in th' galley las' week – I wish ya hadn't said it, Jimbo, 'cause I've been thinkin' a lot about it, and I don't like the thoughts I been havin'."

The boy was silent.

The cyborg voiced the question slowly, spacing out each word, pronouncing them deliberately clearly. "Did ya mean it, Jimbo?"

"It—it doesn't matter," the teenager replied, still staring furiously at the deck. His voice sounded strangely thick now.

"Ah, lad," Silver said gently, "it does."

Jim did not answer.

"It matters," the cyborg continued softly, "'cause I'm not a father, Jimbo. Ne'er have been, ne'er wanted to be. Ne'er will be." He let this hang in the air for a moment before going on. "An' I'm not no one to be looked to, eit'er. I'm…" _Everything you should never want to be_. "…not the bes'…example. Now, I know ya have ne'er had nobody like a pap to look to or learn from, and tha's tough, lad – I'm sorry it had to happen thataway." He spoke seriously and softly. "Ya deserve a dad, Jimbo."

The lad gave something almost like a sniffle, and Silver was sure he saw the boy swipe at his downturned face.

He forced himself to speak the next words. "…But I'm not it."

The cook waited for his cabin boy to speak, but no words left the latter's mouth – so he took it upon himself to keep on. "There are times…" Silver hesitated before continuing. "…when I wish ye were. But I ne'er had a son, and your pap left ya a long time ago. And we both gotta deal with that."

Quietly, so quietly, the boy whispered brokenly, "You're _all I have_."

And then, to Silver's utter horror, the lad began crying, scrubbing stubbornly at his face even as tears trickled freely down his cheeks.

The cook stood frozen for a moment, hands dangling uselessly at his sides, dark eyes wide in his shock, mouth opening and closing, no sound escaping. At last, he brought his arms up and wrapped them hesitantly around the small shoulders, pulling the thin, shaking body closer to his own. Well did he remember his own boyhood, a lonely, empty twelve years or so, where there seemed to be a hole within himself bigger than he was, and nothing and no one to fill it.

So he lowered his lips to the lad's ear and spoke the only truth he could.

" _I know_ , lad. I know."


	4. Family Matters

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: Just to be absolutely clear, I intended the chapter title to mean "matter" as in "situation". Like, "this is a family matter". Just to clear up any confusion, because there are a lot of different meanings for the word. I don't know why I picked the title, but it sounds right for the chapter and what occurs, so I figured yeah okay, sure. I'm still not happy with the ending, but meh.**

 **UPDATE: I had to remove this chapter because I noticed there was a maaajor loose end that still needed to be tied up. For those who saw the first version, the loose end was the map, so you can skip everything until Jim wakes up, because beyond that, there's new content. :) I'm actually sort of glad I decided to take it down and redo it, though, because I feel the chapter's stronger now. Not by much, but by a little.**

 **And your reviews are seriously so nice, guys :) Thank you so much, you have no idea what your words are doing for me. I said in the AN on the previous version that this has been a bad month for me, but the last couple hours have really turned things around, and you guys' kind words have really helped with that. So thank you so much, and if you enjoy this, please drop a review.**

 **Quick notes/warnings: there's some mentions of blood and injury in this chapter, but it's not very graphic, and there's a bit of language, but it's not too strong. And I imagine Amelia to be the one tending Jim's wounds because I've always had a head-canon that she's really good with medicines and stuff. I mean she states in canon that she had a "run-in with the Protean Armada" whatever _that_ means, so clearly she's got some experience with injury. So I imagine she set Mr. Arrow to keep the rest of the crew going while she tended to Jim, and of course Silver hovers like a concerned papa wolf.**

 **Next chapter will be called _Judgment Call_ , in which at a comment - or, in Jim's view, a _challenge_ \- from Silver, the cabin boy has his first drink. Err, his first _several_ drinks. Silver is forced to hide the drunk kid from the captain and the crew and make sure he doesn't hurt himself while under the influence. What's a pirate to do?**

 **Since I feel like this one-shot didn't really end, I might write a continuation sometime, if I ever find the need. But I don't really see a way to continue it, so maybe not.**

 **I don't own Treasure Planet.**

* * *

It's kind of funny, isn't it, how when everything's said and done, it's the little things, the small details, that really stick out in your mind?

Really, if asked, I couldn't describe the latter half of the day, but I remembered every second of that skiff ride with Silver. The feel of the controls in my hands, and how right it felt. The wind blowing on my face, ruffling my hair, the tilting and rocking of our little craft as we spun and rolled straight into a cloud of stardust. When I thought of it, I could even still hear Silver swearing up a blue streak when we first took off.

And when we tied it up afterward, laughing and teasing, at last collapsing on the benches, I could remember every word we exchanged. And when he sat next to me, I remember the faint, mixed scents of brandy and outside air that always clung to him like a second skin. The rough wool of his coat against my cheek. The smile on my face, the sudden peace within me, because for the first time in a long time, I wasn't furious or scared or lonely or…anything.

For two seconds, I was just me.

The gaping hole that I'd once felt inside me, the empty nothing that had scared me so much, that I thought would one day take me over, seemed smaller somehow, less threatening. I think maybe it was because somebody was filling it.

And for two seconds, I felt okay.

Of course, those two seconds ended, but they happened, and that was good enough for me.

After that, everything happened pretty suddenly.

Looking back, I couldn't tell you whether we heard or felt it first – but there was a really loud noise, like an explosion, and it was like it came from everywhere and nowhere, all at once. And something hit us, too, collided solidly with the _Legacy_ , and sent me tumbling out of Silver's arms.

He immediately reached for me, trying to catch me, but I fell too fast; I threw my hands out in front of me, catching myself before I hit the floor.

The impact jolted my arms and when I sat back on my knees, I groaned a little, rolling my shoulders in hopes of easing the pain.

Silver hauled me up by the collar of my shirt with ease, setting me back on my feet. "Ye alrigh', Jimbo?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." I glanced at him questioningly. "What _was_ that?"

"Yer guess's good as mine, lad," he responded curtly, and, turning, jumped out of the skiff and onto the platform, leaving me to follow him up to the deck.

The rest of the crew was running around wildly when we got there, a few climbing the shrouds to secure the sails. Over by the rail, a few feet away, calm and composed as usual, the captain stood with Mr. Arrow by her side, issuing commands in her stern, no-nonsense manner. "Mr. Hands! Don't just stand there, those at the cannons are in need of assistance! Mr. Turnbuckle, evasive action! Mr. Scroop, this is your _final warning_ – Mr. Hawkins, Mr. Silver, excellent, you two are here…Mr. Silver, I expect you to join Mr. Scroop and Mr. Hands at the cannons, and Mr. Hawkins, as a precaution, you are to arm yourself. Remain on deck, you may be needed."

"What's going on?" Silver demanded, when he could get a word in edgewise.

As if in answer to his question, another vessel drew suddenly even with ours; a small, sleek, dark craft with a telltale black flag flying from the masts.

" _Pirates_."

The captain glanced at me, and I knew what they were after.

"We must keep the scum at bay," the captain clasped her hands behind her back and surveyed the both of us sternly. "And Mr. Silver, as I've said, you will be assisting Mr. Scroop and Mr. Hands with the cannons. Mr. Hawkins, arm yourself and remain on deck."

"Aye, Captain."

And then everything became kind of a blur. I remember the cool weight of the pistol in my hands, and everyone yelling and shouting, Silver disappearing to help with the cannons, and the gunshots. Most of all, I remember the gunshots. And the cries when bullets broke skin and entered bodies. They might have been pirates, but hearing their pain made my stomach clench. Looking down at the pistol in my hands, I didn't think I'd be able to pull the trigger.

If I had to guess, I would say that the laser cannons wiped out at least a third of the opposing crew, and we didn't lose a single man. But the _Legacy_ wasn't a pirate ship, and her cannons were meant only to defend. And the pirate ship had been built to attack.

There was a minute where everything went kind of quiet; everyone still on deck rushed to the rails, and I remember gripping the thin metal bar, leaning out over it, narrowing my eyes in hopes of catching a glimpse of the opposing craft. When I spotted the vessel, I could hardly believe my eyes. These guys called themselves pirates? "They're retreating," I said slowly, because I could hardly believe it myself.

"Retreating?" Everyone at the rail tore their gaze from the empty space and instead looked hopefully at me, repeating the word.

The captain shook her head slowly, eyes narrowed. "No. They're _rethinking_."

These past few months aboard the ship had taught me that the captain, come hell or high water, thought she was always right – and that she usually was. So when she spoke, I knew her assumption was correct.

I remained at the rail, gazing out at the undeniably empty sky. Now that she'd said something, I could sense it in the air itself – the ceaseless tension of calm before a storm. The metal rail was cold beneath my fingers. The air around us was utterly silent, the sky vast and blue and empty. The back of my neck prickled, and I could almost _see_ the pirate ship, lurking somewhere in the clouds, watching and waiting, just as we were. I could only hope that the captain had been wrong.

I drew in a slow breath, leaning out a little farther…eyes scanning the clouds, watching, tensed, ready for attack, waiting for a sign, pistol in hand as I prepared to defend, waiting…waiting…

BOOM.

The noise came from directly behind us, and it was the loudest, most terrifying sound I'd ever heard. I didn't really stop to think, I just reacted instinctively, using my hands to cover my ears and spinning around to look, to see the pirates hauling themselves up over the opposite rail, mouths stretched and twisted into brutal, savage grins.

"Men! Abandon the cannons, they're of no use now!" At the captain's call, those manning the cannons glanced up and around, deserting their posts when they saw the truth in her statements.

Silver headed for the rail instead, pressing a button on his arm; the metal clicked and hummed, transforming suddenly into a rifle. Gunshots rent the air soon after.

The sound of bullets borne by strong, swift winds, whistling through the air, a deathly, singsong warning before they hit their target, was unnerving, nauseating and frightening, to be honest, but when the rest of the crew raced over to the opposite rail and copied Silver, I did the same, taking a second to cock my gun before pointing straight down and shooting. I'd never shot a gun before, and the noise was deafening; the bullet zinged harmlessly past, shooting out among the stars. Before I could do anything more, one of the pirates, who had evidently skillfully avoided every bullet, climbed up onto the rail. Before anyone could react to the bold move, he flung himself onto me, knocking me to the ground, the pistol spinning a few feet away, out of my reach. I expected him to kill me then, so I wasted no time getting to my feet and dashing for my weapon again.

But the pirate actually ignored me. He turned his back and raced away, to the opposite end of the deck. What was he doing? He was…he was going to…to…

"Captain!" The moment I could get close to her, I grabbed her by the arm without thinking, forcing her to listen. "Captain, they're going for your stateroom!"

Her green eyes narrowed. "I'll handle it, Mr. Hawkins." Without another word, she plunged back into the fray and disappeared from my view.

In the frenzy of battle, I guess I lost track of things for a minute, avoiding bullets; but when there seemed to be a lull, I chanced to lift my head, and what I saw made my heart jump in my chest.

Another one of the pirates, a burly alien about the size of our Mr. Hands, had somehow gotten the best of Silver, and towered over him now, and oh, God, there was a pistol in his hands and the barrel pointed straight at Silver's chest, and Silver wasn't moving, wasn't getting up.

For a minute, nothing else in the world mattered to me but Silver, and the possibility of losing him. For an instant, there was nothing but breathless terror and the idea of Silver's eyes falling closed for the last time, and I had to do something. If I lost him…

So I acted. I didn't stop to think. I didn't think, period. I just acted.

I bolted over to them, as fast as I could, my boots pounding on the deck, my heart hammering in my chest, my rapid, shallow breaths scraping against my dry throat, and I raised the pistol. My hands were shaking so badly, I knew the idea of actually shooting the pirate was hopeless, but maybe I could distract him. I had to do something. So I fired.

And the bullet hit him. At any other time, it would have been a sickening, unpleasant sound to me, but all it meant right now was that Silver had more time. So when the bullet entered his leg and he cursed, hitting the deck with a thump, I wasn't upset.

"Silver!" My voice came out loud and high and panicked; I knelt at his side, but he was already up, dark eyes assessing the situation.

When he spotted the crumpled, bleeding pirate, his eyes narrowed. He rose to his feet, and I thought he seemed a bit unsteady, but when I offered a hand to help him, he waved me away. "Mr. Silver!" The captain's cry had the both of us turning; it didn't matter that she'd only called one name. Fearing the worst – had they gotten to the map? – I raced toward her, following Silver's broad back.

For a minute, I was just running. For a minute, I wasn't aware of anything except the rocking deck beneath my feet, the relief when Silver regained his usual pace, one hand clenched into a fist and the pistol clutched in the other.

And then I heard it.

The whistle.

The deathly warning.

The song.

All I knew after that was pain. With every breath, there was a new explosion of agony, and it was _blinding_. I couldn't run, I couldn't even stand. I just collapsed, hitting the deck knees-first, and then there was cool wood beneath my cheek. I knew I needed to rise, get up, keep running, keep fighting, but I couldn't. My body wouldn't respond to my commands. Distantly, I could hear somebody yelling, but I couldn't make out the words, or where they were coming from. I could smell something burning, like rubber or wood. But all I could feel was pain. And all I could see was red, dotting my sleeves before growing into a great river, trying to drown me. I drew in a ragged, choked gasp, and even this hurt. I wanted to move, to try and get up or roll over or something, see if I could escape or even ease the pain, but I couldn't. I couldn't move. I could hardly breathe. All I could do was stare at the red staining everything around me, blossoming like some perverse flower, before the red turned black and I passed out.

* * *

I wanted to go back to sleep the moment I woke up. All I could feel, all I could see, all I could hear or taste or think was pain. Every broken breath was excruciating. It was a struggle to even open my eyes. Above me, blurry figures moved, and quiet voices spoke.

"What's going on?" I tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. The speakers turned to face me, and in some corner of my mind, I recognized their faces, but I couldn't say from where, and I couldn't name them.

"Don't move, Jimbo," one of the speakers directed me, coming to stand next to me; a gentle, firm hand found its way onto my chest. "Ya'll make everythin' worse doin' that."

"What's going on? Is something wrong?"

"No, no. Nothin's wrong, Jimbo, everythin's fine. Just lay back down. We'll take care o' things."

"What's going on?" A new idea, inspired by the speaker's somber tones, occurred to me. "Is somebody hurt?"

"Everyone is accounted for, Mr. Hawkins," the other informed me. "It would be best at this point for you to return to your earlier position and relax."

"C-Captain?" Only one person ever called me Mr. Hawkins.

"Indeed. Follow my orders, Mr. Hawkins."

"Okay." It was too hard to speak, anyway. And I was having trouble just keeping my eyes open. I slowly lowered myself back down onto the cool, hard surface. It wasn't my bed. It wasn't the hammock below decks. "Wait, where…where am I?"

Captain turned to the other person, and dropped her voice a little. I could still hear every word. "Keep him distracted while I work, if you please. Speak to him. Keep him calm. According to the doctor, you're very good at this."

"Aye." The other responded gravely, and came to stand next to me.

"What's going on?" I demanded, again. What did she mean, _keep him distracted while I work_? What would she do, exactly?

"Nothin' big, Jimbo – ya got a bi' banged up earlier, but we're lookin' after ya. Ye're gonna be fine."

"I…where am I?" I repeated, fingers exploring the surface I lay on. Well, the fingers on my left hand did. My right hand refused to move. My right _arm_ refused to move. Panic suddenly gripped me. "What's happened to my arm?"

"Nothin', Jimbo, I told ya. We're just patchin' ya up a little. But ye're gonna be fine, I promise. I'm here."

For some reason, these words calmed me more than anything else right then could have. And they were cause enough for me to fight against the exhaustion plaguing me and force my eyes open to stare up at the speaker, the tanned face and dark eyes… Even in my half-conscious state, I registered what I said was wrong even before I said it, but it still came out of my mouth. "Dad?"

He fell silent.

Somewhere out of sight, the captain began prodding at my right arm; the pain she produced was so blinding that I couldn't keep quiet. "What are you doing?" I tried to sit up again, to look at her, but I was shaking so badly by then that I couldn't rise more than a few inches.

"Jimbo, lay down," he placed a placating hand on my good wrist. "Don' be movin' too much."

"What's going on, Dad?" I knew that wasn't his name, somehow, but I couldn't think beyond the word. My mind recognized it was wrong, but it just felt right.

"Jimbo…" He was really quiet again after that. He sounded sort of upset; panic stirred within me at the realization. What had I done wrong this time?

"No…Dad, wait…I'm sorry…" I lifted my good left hand, trying to find his, to reach out and touch him. "I didn't…I'm sorry…what did I do? I'll fix it…promise…I can fix it, I can…just don't leave, please don't leave…"

There was an instant where I was afraid he wouldn't respond, but then his fingers found mine; his grip was warm and firm and reassuring. "No one's leavin' ya, Jimbo."

"Are you sure?" I wasn't completely sure I believed him; I had a number of experiences of saying goodbye. "People leave all the time…" My head was beginning to pound, but I swallowed against the pain. "They're always leaving…just wish somebody would _stay_ …"

* * *

The next time I awoke, I was aware of my surroundings, but the recent happenings felt dim and vague and incorrect; I thought I must have dreamed them. The slight rolling, tilting motion of the _Legacy_ and the sickening swaying of a hammock was unsettling to me in a way it hadn't been for awhile. I swallowed, licking dry lips; my mouth tasted stale and sour. My throat burned with thirst.

When I shifted, trying to rise, fiery agony seized me, searing unbearably along my right arm; I drew a sharp, surprised breath, glancing down at once to locate the cause. A white bandage wrapped firmly around my upper arm, dotted here and there with scarlet drops, was the only indication that anything had happened. I moved slower after that, hesitant and careful; I'd obviously gotten hurt somehow, and I didn't want to worsen that with haste.

When I'd at last made it to my feet, vision blurry and stance shaky, I almost surrendered and collapsed right back in the hammock. The mere idea of journeying from here to the galley was exhausting, and I wasn't sure I could make it there without throwing up or something. But my throat was raw and sore, and I was sure water would help.

I stumbled around, up the steps, staggering like a zombie, a nasty, throbbing headache already beginning to threaten me. When I reached the deck, the signs of devastation that greeted me jogged my memory. Pirates. The pirates had attacked. The pirates had been after the map. The pirates had gone for Captain's stateroom. The pirates might have gotten…

I forgot about the water, the pain, everything, and just bolted across the deck to the stateroom. Flinging open the door, I burst into the room. "The map? Is the map okay?"

There was a second of silence while the captain, Mr. Arrow and Delbert – I couldn't figure out why he was in there, but I had more important things to worry about – just stared at me, but to me, it felt like an eternity. Finally, the captain recovered and glanced down at the papers on her desk, returning to her previous task. "Mr. Hawkins, it is considered good etiquette to knock before entering the quarters of a superior."

"Sorry," I acknowledged the truth in her statement, but I wouldn't let myself get distracted; reaching over and shutting the door, I lowered my voice and added, "Well? The map? It's okay, right?"

The captain allowed herself a small smile. "Yes, Mr. Hawkins. Thanks to your warning and Dr. Doppler's quick thinking, it is safe."

"Good." A relieved sigh escaped my lips; the pain, exhaustion and dizziness came rushing back. I put a hand to my temple, trying to ease the mounting headache.

The captain must have noticed this, because she added, "Consider yourself relieved of your duties until further notice, Mr. Hawkins. You are still recovering, and will want to get a bit of rest."

"Recovering?" I spared the bandage on my arm a brief glance. Oh. The pirates. Right. The deadly whistle. The pain. The red river surrounding me. I'd been hurt. "Alright."

"Although I would advise you to stop by the galley and have a word with Mr. Silver – he is anxious to hear more of your condition."

"Right." I nodded, still running my fingers over my throbbing temple. "Thanks, Captain."

From the stateroom, I stumbled to the galley, longing thoughts of sleep already sneaking in again. Somehow, I felt more exhausted than I ever had in my life. When I made it to the galley and spotted Silver at the stove, I gave him a quick smile but kept heading for the water barrel; the captain had soothed me about the map, so water was once again my top priority. "Hi."

He didn't return my welcome; dropping the spoon in his hand and abandoning whatever meal he'd been preparing, he hobbled over to me as fast as his cyborg leg could carry him. "Yer awake?"

Considering the answer was pretty clear, I didn't bother responding, just grabbed a small wooden cup, dipping it in the barrel and filling it to the brim. I didn't stop drinking until the cup was completely empty and I had to go back for a refill.

"Don' drink too much," Silver cautioned, but the words were flat, the tone harsh and unfriendly. "Ya don't want it all comin' back up in a few minutes."

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and turned to face him. "You're acting kind of weird, what's up?"

"Nothin'." But his expression was closed and unreadable, and I wasn't stupid; I could tell when he was holding back.

He turned abruptly away from me again, seizing his spoon and resuming his stirring with unwonted vigor.

"Silver?" I took a step closer to him, abandoning the water. "What's wrong?"

When he glanced at me, I could see fire in his dark eyes. "Ya need to get back to bed, get some more rest."

I let out a frustrated sigh, turning away from him. "Fine." It wasn't my job to babysit him. Maybe he was pissed at something else. It had nothing to do with me.

When Silver spoke again, he sounded deceptively, eerily calm. "If you'll pardon my plain speakin'…" His tone grew suddenly, inexplicably harsh; not loud, not a yell, just pure fury. "Have ya gone _stark-raving, totally-blinkin' daft_?"

"What? Why?"

"Tha' pirate? Ya shot tha' pirate!"

"W-well…well, yeah! I mean, he was about to shoot you! Silver, I thought—"

"It doesn' matter what ya thought!" he forestalled me; he was yelling properly now. "I was gettin' back on my feet, lad, I was fine! Ya didn't need to go burstin' in there—what were you thinkin'?" He interrupted himself; abandoning the stirring again and grabbing my arm, forcing me to spin and face him, he repeated, "What were ya thinkin'?"

"I don't know!" I ran my fingers through my hair in exasperation. "Maybe that you were going to die? That I'd better help you out?"

"That pirate," he informed me, "he was th' one that shot ya. If ya hadn't stepped in, he wouldn't have—"

"If I hadn't stepped in, you'd be _dead_!"

"Ya shouldn't have!" he roared. "I was gettin' up, I was fine!"

At the time, I'd been certain that if I remained still, he wouldn't make it. Now his words ripped through that certainty, making me feel stupid and foolish. "But…well…it didn't look like that from where I was standing!"

"Ya don' interfere with pirates! Ya piss off a pirate, ya got the whole crew after ya! He coulda killed ya!"

"But he didn't!"

"Well, that was some dumb luck!"

"Does it matter anymore?"

"Of course it does!"

"Everyone's okay!"

"But I thought ya weren't!"

"And you _almost_ weren't!"

"Ya don' understand! I would have been—"

 _"I can't lose you, too!"_

The moment I spoke the words, I wished I could un-say them. In their wake was this horrible, ringing silence and when I met his gaze, I couldn't hold it; with his eyes came the sudden certainty that everything that had happened after the red river turned black hadn't been a dream, either. That he'd really been there. That I'd accidentally called him dad. That we'd talked about goodbye. My throat burned with something stronger than thirst.

I spun around, glaring down into the depths of the water barrel. I couldn't even let him see my face anymore.

When he spoke, his voice was unbearably gentle. "Jimbo…"

"I have to go." Cool detachment. It was what I was best at, and it would work now. I had to be icy. Aloof. Jim I-don't-give-a-shit Hawkins was back in place. I pushed off from the water barrel, setting my jaw, clenching my fists.

I spun around, shouldering my way past him; hot tears pricked insistently at the corners of my eyes, but I forced them back. I could not cry. Not here. Anywhere but in front of Silver. Before I could reach the galley steps, he grabbed for me, catching my sleeve and forcing me to slow.

"Silver—"

"When ya got hurt…" He met my gaze for only seconds before we both looked away again. "There was a minute there when…when we didn' know if ya were goin' to be okay."

"Okay." I nodded. It'd be best to just let him talk. Hearing him talk was a hundred times better than him trying to make me talk.

"And it didn' last very long," he continued, a little awkwardly now. "But…but ye should know that…it was...it was...awful...it was awful for...for me, I mean, 'cause…'cause I can't lose ye, neither."


	5. Judgment Call

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: This one took me a bit longer than the others because I didn't really have a plan for it. Ordinarily, when I start a fic, I plan it out first, just a rough outline, and then I go back over certain moments and fill in the gaps and think of things the characters should say and how they move or look or what they're doing when they say them, but this time, I didn't really let myself do that, I just sort of plunged right in. So it took me a little longer on this one because I literally made up most of it as I went along, and I have to say, it was an enjoyable experience. I probably won't do it very often in the future, but it was fun while it lasted to just kind of let myself go.**

 **Which brings me to another point: I wasn't sure what "type" of drunk Jim would be - you know, would he be weepy? Happy? Pissed? I wasn't sure. After a bit of thought, though, I concluded that he'd probably be the overly-emotional type of drunk, where all you have to do is breathe wrong and he clenches his fists and hollers, "You wanna fucking go?" and whatnot - but, on the other side of the coin, you could breathe wrong and he could start sobbing unrestrained instead. But I also got the feeling he'd be the night-blogger type drunk, too, where he says really crazy but sort-of insightful things and makes everyone around him think. I think it fits. :)**

 **So, this is also a bit shorter than the last two, and it's a bit different, not only because of how it was written, but also because of the timing. I like to write one-shots between these two after they've already begun really liking each other, so there's not as much struggle to show the reader their relationship, or even build it. All I have to do is make sure the rest of the story's working, but I didn't have that luxury with this one. I couldn't see this happening any earlier in the fic, and I couldn't see Jim taking such serious offense to Silver's comments any later. So this is set in the 'I'm Still Here' sequence, but Jim and Silver aren't that fond of each other yet. Awkward dorks. I love them so much xD**

 **Also, before I go, I would like to address something from the previous chapter, _Family Matters_ \- after I penned and posted it, I got my hands on a copy of "Treasure Planet: A Voyage of Discovery", and according to that book, the guns in the film's universe don't shoot bullets, they shoot lasers. You see, I wasn't aware of this. And to go back and substitute bullets for laser beams would kind of kill the story, so I plan to leave it as is, but I'm _truly_ sorry for that. I'll work next time to make sure there are no further inaccuracies in this fic.**

 **Quick warning, this chapter features some strong language, underage drinking and teenage shenanigans.**

 **As always, reviews are love, honest feedback is appreciated and useful, flames are hurtful, so please don't leave any, and thank you all for reading this!**

 **Next chapter will feature Jim's POV again, first-person, expounding upon a moment in the 'I'm Still Here' sequence, and will be called _Written in the Stars_** _ **.**_

* * *

Thirty minutes ago, things had been pretty normal.

Well…

"Normal" was a relative term for Silver. In fact, considering he was a pirate, his normal could be anywhere from stealing treasures, celebrating his victory with beer, essentially living like a king, to skulking hurriedly through dirty city streets, head down, hat pulled low, avoiding police officers and struggling to find enough food or get enough sleep.

As of late, his normal had been somewhere between the two – life on the ship was comfortable and simple, and he was grateful for it. He always had plenty of food; he had a bed every night, and got plenty of rest; he had company and ease and the destination to keep him going despite everything…yet he still lived in a near-constant fear of discovery.

After all, the captain was a clever woman, there was no doubting that, and with that fiercely loyal, ever-vigilant first mate of hers always at her side, Silver had been working hard to slip under the radar. Not to mention the boy…a few minutes aboard the ship and he had been so close to guessing the truth…

That lad was something else, to say the least.

He, unfortunately, figured heavily into Silver's current normal; from washing dishes to mopping the deck to bitter, muttered complaints regarding the work he was expected to complete, the kid had a way of getting under the cook's skin, no matter what.

True, he hadn't voiced his displeasure nearly as often lately, but far be it from Silver to think this was actually because the lad felt he had nothing to complain about; it was most likely the resulting exhaustion from hard work and little else for five straight weeks. He hadn't responded, or even looked up, at any of the cook's gibes that morning, just silently seated himself on the old, upturned crate to finish washing the dishes left over from the previous night.

By now, the rest of the crew had fallen asleep, leaving Silver and his cabin boy to finish cleaning the galley before retiring themselves; at one point during the task, the cook had happened to glance at the mead barrel, recalling suddenly that it was empty. "Jimbo?"

"Mm?" The kid rose to his feet, precariously balancing a stack of gleaming plates in his arms, making his slow way over to the cupboard.

"Whenever you're done with that, lad, I'd like ya to scurry off to the storeroom and bring up a bit more rum. Seems somebody drank th' last o' this barrel and didn' tell me."

"Mm-hm."

The kid _must_ have been tired, the cyborg realized. This kind of ready obedience was just not him.

He didn't have long to ponder this; ten minutes later, the lad disappeared into the storeroom and returned bearing a full barrel, setting it down next to the other with a grunt. The force caused the lid to jump a bit, splashing a few droplets on the back of Jim's hand. Without even batting an eye, the kid lifted his hand and actually licked it off.

"Jimbo—

Silver never made it any farther than that. To be honest, he wasn't even sure what he'd been intending to say. "Don't do that, you're underage"? It wouldn't technically be illegal for the kid to have a drink or two here, in the middle of the Eitherium – unwise, perhaps, but not really illegal.

Silver didn't suppose it mattered, because he never got the chance to argue the point with Jim anyway. Because almost immediately, the kid's face crumpled.

His mouth twisted, his nose wrinkled, his tongue came out and he wiped at his lip as if to physically reject the taste, scrubbing with his jacket sleeve. "Ewww!"  
And there was something about the expression on his face – and the suddenly obvious fact that he must have never had anything even akin to alcohol before – that sent Silver over the edge, and he burst into laughter.

Somewhere amid his mirth, he heard the lad demand, "Do people actually like this stuff?"

Struggling now to control his laughter, the cook tapped the barrel in satisfaction. "This is some o' the choicest stuff in th' galaxy, Jimbo. But it is a bi', uh…beyond your level." He bit down on his lip to keep from betraying any amusement, leaning over and detaching the pot from over the stove, carrying it over to the galley steps. But he couldn't just leave it at that. He was John Silver, after all, not exactly known for his tact. He had to give at least one really good jab. Flint knew the kid deserved it. "You migh' be better off stickin' to juice. Leave the grog to experienced men." And the last thing Silver saw before ascending the galley steps was the lad's dark scowl. The cook laughed to himself all the way up to the deck.

Perfectly ordinary. Right?

Even once he'd emptied the pot over the side, all the uneaten, unused food falling away into space, Silver hesitated upon returning at once to the stuffy galley. It was a beautiful night, clear and sweet-smelling and endless – the kind of night that made it hard to regret his decisions. On nights like these, he never wanted to quit looking at the stars.

Deep in thought, the cyborg drew closer to the rail, placing his flesh hand upon the cool metal bar, gaze fixed always upon the sky above his head. Treasure Planet was what he was waiting for, it was what he was chasing, dreaming of, killing and scheming and aching for – but had it been worth it? He glanced down at once, examining his cyborg hand, stretching the fingers in and out, listening to the gears clicking and whirring with each new movement. He'd become something less than a man in his endless quest, and he just had to hope it had been worth it.

It took a minute for Silver to return to the ship; with the Eitherium stretching out before him in all its endless magnitude, it seemed to him that he could forget himself if he stared at the stars much longer. Forget everything that made him who he was. Forget everything.

A little roughly, the cook pushed away from the rail, opting instead to inspect the deck as critically as possible, eyeing the hardwood in hopes of spying anything, a flaw, an imperfection, that would keep the kid up for another couple hours. He was feeling vindictive enough tonight to force the kid to stay awake.

Failing that, the cyborg remained on deck for another ten minutes, at last conceding defeat – damn teenager was getting real good at mopping, Silver thought moodily – and returning to the too-warm quarters below.

Only to find Jimbo standing there. Over the mead barrel. Laughing. A little too loudly.

It took Silver only a second to come up with the reason behind this strange behavior, but he clung to hope like a drowning man to a lifeline. "Jimbo?"

At least this made the laughing stop. Unfortunately, it also caught the kid's attention and he lifted his head suddenly. "Shilver?"

Flint help him, the kid was shit-faced.

How had it happened? He'd only been up there thirty minutes, forty at the most! It wasn't like that was enough time to…

"This is some strong stuff, Silver."

"Best grog I've had in ages!"

"Damn, this is some good rum."

By Davy Jones' locker, this was not good.

And this left Silver with only one question: what had the kid been thinking?

"Hi, Silver," the teenager appeared suddenly at his side, smile a little too wide, stance a little too relaxed, eyes a little glassy. "Hi, Silver. Hi."

And there he stood, acting like everything was natural. Like the scent of alcohol didn't cling to him like a second skin. Like he hadn't just consumed Blackbeard knew how many.  
Unfortunately, the cook couldn't even find it within himself to yell at the lad. All he could really manage was a sort of halfhearted, "Wha…?"

"Mm." Without warning, the kid suddenly leaned against Silver, small fingers finding the cook's flesh arm. "You're warm."

"And you're…you're wasted," Silver remarked, still unwilling to believe it.

"I'm not drunk," Jim was quick to respond, but his words came slowly. "You're drunk." And then he melted into peals of laughter.

"What are you…how did you…why…how much did you have?" Silver finally managed, in a weak voice.

"I'm…I'm…" Jim pushed off the cook, eyebrows scrunching together, as if undergoing severe mental strain. "I'm…what's the word?"

Silver stared at him.

"What's the word?" The boy grabbed at his arm again, as if it was a matter of dire importance. "C'mon, you know it…when you…when you didn't do something?"

"What were ya thinkin', kid?"

"Innocent! There we go!" Jim hollered. "I'm innocent! One hundred percent this time! Make sure to tell Mom, 'kay? I was innocent this time! I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Lad, you're hammered to the poin' where it's no' even funny. Now I expect ya to tell me straight, what was goin' through tha' head o' yours when ya decided drinkin' was a good idea?" He should have known it was useless to try and get anything out of the boy when he was in this state, but looking back, Silver supposed at that point, he'd still been clinging to the hope that it was all an act.

The kid stared up at him with unfocused eyes. "Are you…are you gonna take me to Juvenile Hall?"

"…What?"

"No! I'm innocent this time!"

"Alright." Silver wasn't sure if he was conceding defeat or just struggling to keep a hold on his emotions; either way, he blew out a breath, massaging his temple. It was pointless to try and scold the kid at this point, so the cook changed plans. "Ya need to get to bed, Jimbo."

"Fuck it." The kid shrugged nonchalantly, suddenly uncaring. "I'll go to sleep when I damn well please."

"Oh, believe me, lad, we'll talk in the mornin', and you'll want to be well rested, then, I assure ya." Silver rather thought he was speaking through his teeth at this point, but he couldn't be sure.

"I don't need rest." Jim lifted himself easily up onto the nearest table, picking at a groove in the wood. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"No. Ya need to get to sleep—

"I'm hot." The kid shrugged off his jacket and then, without any sort of warning at all, reached down and began to pull up his shirt.

Silver had witnessed his fair share of immodesty, but he still felt the blood rushing from his face rapidly, and he dashed over to the kid as quickly as he could, fighting to pull the hem back down. "Put your clothes back on!"

"Why?"

"You're gettin' dressed again." Silver left no room for arguments this time; the last thing he needed was for the doctor or, so help him, the captain, to come across him with his half-naked cabin boy and assume the worst.

"You don't control me."

Silver at last managed to redress the boy, forcing the shirt back down, and released a small exhale, leaning against the table for a moment. The silence that followed was almost peaceful, at least until the boy's eyes brightened. "Did you know I could get paid to take off my clothes?"

"Jimbo—

"I could, though! I'm serious!"

"No."

"You're an ass," the boy responded casually, flopping back on the table.

"Ya need to get in bed."

The kid sat up again. "And you need to get in the retirement home."

"Kid, I swear to Flint, you're diggin' your own grave."

"I can't!" The kid sounded close to tears now, and the cook immediately glanced up, afraid that maybe he'd hurt himself.

"Ya can' what?"

"I can't dig my own grave!" Tears built up in the blue eyes.

"What…?"

"I don't have a _shovel_!" sobbed Jim. "I mean, I guess I could dig with my hands…but then Mom would get mad. She hates it when I dig holes in the yard. But I guess we could dig it in your yard?"

"Lad…"

"Let's dig it in Spider Psycho's yard," Jim suddenly sat up again, sniffling a little. "Then we'll push him in it. So I'll have dug _his_ grave."

"Ya need to get in bed." Silver did not add that this last idea of Jim's sounded tempting.

"Yeah, okay."

There was a long silence in which the lad did not move an inch.

"…Jimbo?"

In a voice of utter wonder, the kid whispered, "I could get paid to take my clothes off."

"For the last time-"

"I mean, isn't that crazy? I could get paid to take my clothes off. That's some fucking insane shit, right? I could make money off my nudity. Can you imagine that?"

"I wish I couldn't," mumbled Silver.

"And you know what else? Isn't this crazy? Listen, just hear me on this – my family, we're all in totally different places right now. Isn't that crazy? I mean, I thought the point of family was to stay together. To be there." His tone shifted, becoming suddenly quiet. "But I'm here. On this ship. With you. And my mom's back on Montressor. And then…then my dad…well…who knows where he is?"

Another silence fell, and in it, Silver wrestled an unreasonable swell of something resembling pity. He knew the kid wasn't actually upset, knew this sudden sentimental mood was due only to the drink, but he still couldn't shake the feeling.

"Fuck that." Jim jumped off the table, voice cutting through the cyborg's thoughts, landing a little unsteadily on the galley floor. "Fuck that. And fuck him, too." He stumbled a little, grabbing at Silver's coat sleeve to keep himself upright. "Fuck him, right? I don't need anyone. I'm…I'm me. I don't need anyone. I'm alone. And it's fine."

"Lad…" And Silver wanted to say more, wanted to find the right words, reassure the kid and send him away, but the silence stretched on and the right words never came.

"It's cool. I'm fine. I don't need people. I don't. I'm not…I'm not…I won't ever need people, so I won't ever be clingy or needy or whiny, and I won't ever need them so much that they leave. Who needs that, right? Who needs me?" The kid curled his hand into a fist around the scrap of Silver's coat. "You want to hear something crazy? I don't need me, either. I don't need me, and you don't need me, and nobody needs me. That's crazy, right?"

Sympathy be damned, now Silver was starting to get a little annoyed. He had limited patience with people who wasted time feeling sorry for themselves, and, drunk or no, the kid looked ready to wallow in his own self-pity. "Ya need to get—

"I don't need me. Nobody needs me. Nobody."

"That's bullshit," Silver snapped, and put a hand on the kid's chest, pushing him away as firmly as possible.

"No…no, but it makes sense," the kid protested weakly, latching onto the cyborg's thin white shirt and clinging to it with seemingly all his strength. "All I do is mess things up and upset Mom. I mean, if somebody needed me…if she needed me…" Jim was silent for an impossibly long moment. "If he needed me, he would have stayed." The words came out so quietly that Silver nearly missed them. Nearly.

For a moment, the pity crept back in, tugging at whatever was left of his heart – poor kid, he thought, poor, poor kid – and for some reason, he found himself saying, "That's bullshit. Everyone's got somethin' to offer th' world, Jimbo, even you. Even if ya don't see it yet." He nodded, as if to reinforce his own words, and waited a minute for the other to respond.

It seemed to take Jim a long time to do so. "You…you know what, Silver?" His voice sounded strange; shaky and sad. Silver hoped to God that the kid wouldn't cry again. If he did, the cook recognized that he'd need to comfort him. He just needed to tell him that everything was going to be okay and hopefully—

"There are times when you can be a real dick."

Silver wasn't quite sure where this conversation was heading, but he was pretty certain an intoxicated teenager was insulting him.

"But then there are times when you can be really nice, too. Isn't that kind of weird? Can people do that? Can they be nice and a dick at the same time? We'd need a word for it, though. A cross between 'dick' and 'nice'."

"...Jimbo."

"DICE!" Jim hollered, before melting at once into peals of hysterical laughter. "Dice! You're a dice! You're a dice, Silver, get it?"

 _"What?"_

"Dice," the lad's laughter died away almost instantly, smile fading into a small, bewildered frown. "Silver...Silver, I...I gotta...gotta tell you something..."

Silver was silent a moment, briefly weighing the merits of ignoring the kid entirely and herding him up to the crew's quarters with as little conversation as possible, but reluctantly concluded that this course of action probably wouldn't convince his cabin boy to listen to him any more than when he was sober. "...What is it?"

"Silver," Jim locked his thin fingers once more around the cook's flesh arm to steady himself, and leaned in _much_ too close for the other's comfort. "I still don't have a shovel."


	6. Written in the Stars

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **DISCLAIMER: Nothing has changed since the last chapter; I still don't own Treasure Planet. If I did, there would be a sequel, a shit-ton of merchandise, possibly a theme park, and an animated television series. And Jim and Silver would have had a really adorable reunion in that sequel, btw. Just saying.**

 **So, here it is, my shortest chapter to date. The first version was pretty short, too, but there was something... _wrong_ with it. You know? Well, anyway, this is also the first chapter that features no Jim/Silver interaction, just an honest-to-God moment for Jim to think about his father. May have gotten a little off-topic, and Jim uses some strong language, but what can you do. Seriously. Next chapter will have Jim/Silver interaction. I promise. You know what I love though, like you know what my kryptonite is like seriously you know what I am in LOVE with those fics where Jim and Silver meet after the film or something - multi-chapter fics, I mean - and they end up going on another adventure or something and there's like a whole huge plot going on beyond them and their relationship but their relationship is a major part of the story too because there's constant conflict and tension between them and it just builds and builds throughout the fic until it frickin EXPLODES in their adorable bae faces and they yell at each other and I sit there quietly lapping up their precious tears and rage and angst and then I sit and wait for the apology scene because we all know it's coming xDD But I won't turn down a good fic where Scroop hurts Jim either and Jim won't say anything because he doesn't want Silver to think any less of him and of course we as the audience scream at the lil shit to tell Silver and we know he won't but we yell at him anyway and we both love and hate him for his stubbornness and then he ends up passing out and Silver finds him and sees bruises or something and is like where did this come from and Jim is like ummmmm Iguessthespiderpsychokindadidthis and Silver is like YOU LITTLE SHIT WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME and we're like YOU LITTLE SHIT WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL SILVER and we lap up Jim's pain and Silver's anger xDDD I am trash for Jim/Silver father/son okay so don't even look at me like that.**

 **Next chapter will be called _Hero_ , a rather long AU one-shot in which things worked out slightly differently for Jim, Silver and the others.**

* * *

Up here, the wind is cold, blowing in harsh and strong from the northeast; it ruffles my hair and makes my clothes billow out around me, whipping water into my eyes and stealing the breath right from my lungs, but I don't care. All I want is to keep looking at the sky. It's wild and beautiful up here; the stars are endless and amazing, and it feels like if I look at them too long, I risk falling into them and losing every bit of who I am. I'll admit the option sounds tempting.

I probably shouldn't be up here; it's probably against the rules for the ship. Some might even consider the bowsprit a dangerous place, but the better part of seven years on a solar surfer makes it kind of hard to be wary of heights. My hands have gone numb by now, fingers chilled to the bone with how hard I've been gripping the thin, cold wood, but I don't leave. It isn't even a thought in my head. I just want to stay out here forever, drinking in the sight of those stars, their light cool and impassive, glittering faintly, shedding dim illumination down upon me. No one else is out here tonight. It's just me. Me and the stars and my questions.

 _Am I under the same sky that Dad's under right now? Is he standing on a ship right now, head tipped back, drinking in the sight of the stars, same as me? Is he maybe thinking of me?_

 _Is he wondering about me, like I wonder about him? Does he ever regret that he left? Ever? Ever think of me and wonder about me? What I look like now, what I get up to my in spare time? What I'm learning in school? I wonder what he looks like now. I wonder if he remembers me as the stupid eight-year-old kid who cried for him for an endless, lonely stretch of days and nights and stood up at the end of everything, knowing without a shadow of doubt that the man he'd just cried for was never coming back._

I wonder what he'd think if he met me now – what would he think of the kid he left behind, fifteen now, hiding in a beat-up black jacket, fucking everything up and hurting everyone around him and riding off on his solar surfer like it doesn't matter to him; and it does, it does, but to say that would be welcoming in something like emotion, like feeling, and I don't want to feel. I don't want ever want to feel anything for anyone again.

I wonder if Dad ever loved me at all.

I turn my gaze away from the skies, unable to keep looking any longer; I don't want to see the stars anymore. I don't want to wonder anything, don't want to feel. It seems written in the stars that if I feel, it'll just blow up in my face like a fucking supernova. It's written in the stars that it's easier to just…not feel _anything_. It's written in the stars that if I feel for anyone ever again, they'll leave me, too.


	7. Hero

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: So this is a teensy bit shorter than I thought it was going to be, but it works. I thought it would be an easy 5 or maybe 6 thousand, but it clocks in at just under 4k. And, to be honest, I was too scared of dragging it out to risk adding the extra few thousand words. And frankly, it doesn't really need any more words than it has, I think. It's long enough already.**

 **But if we can forget that for a minute, I did want to add here that there's a certain type of injury featured in this chapter - I refrain from saying what it is, as I don't want to spoil things - and there's a lot of controversy about how you treat it. Some people say elevate the feet - others say that'll worsen the condition. Some say make sure their lips and fingernails don't turn blue; others say that means nothing. There's just a lot of different ideas going around about how to remedy this, and I decided to go with the basics, and ignore everything else. So. Another slight issue I'm having with this chapter is - while I certainly didn't intend this to be a tearjerker (my writing is way more dramatic in those cases) I did want to at least sadden the reader, and I just feel like this one doesn't cut it in terms of emotion. I just...I dunno, as the writer, I feel like it's very hard to share in Silver's pain here. But according to you guys, I've been wrong before; so maybe I'm just being too hard on myself? One more thing I feel prudent to mention here: Silver is slightly OOC. I just wrote him here as a more openly affectionate character than he is in canon, but I knew going in it would probably turn out that way - so rather than fighting it, I sort of embraced it. (The captain was also sort of OOC, but I gave up on accurately writing her a looooonggg time ago.)**

 **Admittedly, this chapter's building off what I established in _Family Matters_ , so Amelia sort of plays the part of medic again. I hope nobody minds too much, just my personal head-canon. Anyway, I had a bit of fun with the beginning of this chapter - like Judgment Call, I hadn't planned this one out quite as neatly; the beginning and middle were more rough, hazy outlines and I only knew what needed to happen at the end.**

 **One more thing, I state that there was a "space of perhaps thirty seconds", even though BEN was counting down the last five seconds before the planet exploded - but BEN wasn't actually counting seconds, not really; there's enough space in between each number to be ten or even fifteen seconds, so I figured I could use the space of thirty seconds to measure a unit of time here.**

 **WARNING: This chapter features severe injuries and strong language.**

 **Thank you guys so much for checking out this story, thank you so much for all your reviews, and please leave more!**

* * *

James Hawkins was many things.

But first and foremost, James Hawkins was a hero.

Whenever Silver so much as thought the name, his broad chest swelling with equal parts exasperation and pride, this was, it had to be admitted, the first word to come to mind.

But his affection for the lad was not a blind one; he knew the child had his flaws, knew that he was perfectly capable of – and indeed, had seemingly made it a habit to do so – causing chaos wherever he went; the kid had a chip on his shoulder the size of his home planet, and wore it around like a damn _badge_ half the time; he was ready to pick a fight with anything that _breathed_ wrong around him; he was sometimes a nuisance, often irritating; he was thoughtless and impulsive; moody and sarcastic, hardheaded and foolhardy, stubborn and defiant, and he had, quite honestly, given the old cook more gray hairs than the cyborg in question cared to count.

But this boy – this furious teenager whose black jacket and dark scowl screamed trouble; this kid who spent the better part of his days violating probations and outrunning police officers; the lad who challenged at him every turn, who dripped disdain and defiance and everything in the world the pirate could have lived without – was so much more than that.

And there was something within him, Silver thought – something bigger and more beautiful than he felt he would ever have the privilege to glimpse; it was there and it was visible – a raw and untapped potential, previously undiscovered…perhaps because nobody else had ever thought there was more to him, or that it was worth searching for.

Within him, Silver saw that there was worth, and there was wonder; there was kindness and there was courage; there was intellect, he saw, and strength; and there was, he knew, a _future_.

Even he, who fancied himself perhaps the cleverest pirate to ever traverse the Eitherium had been outwitted by Jim Hawkins a time or two, and he found he could not muster up the surprise or outrage an occurrence like this demanded; the lad was, without question, truly remarkable – when Silver considered all the things he had done! Finding Flint's trove when it seemed truly out of reach; discovering a boat, laden with gold and long past its prime, starting it up in perhaps sixty seconds, maybe less; softening the heart of a pirate to the point of sacrifice…James Hawkins was a wonder, he was amazing, he was…he was a hero, in every way.

And, Silver realized now, he would have liked the chance to tell Jimbo that, to draw the child aside and tell him, praise him for the good he had already done, all the remarkable things he had already achieved, the courage he had already displayed, the brilliance he already possessed, and whatever happened next, the old cyborg thought his chest likely to burst from his pride and faith in the boy before him.

He would have liked to remind him that he did not have to do this, that he had already acted bravely and nobly today, already fought a man's battle at the age of fifteen, had already awed everyone aboard this ship, just by being him and that he did not need to do so again. He was already a hero and he did not need to do this. _Please don't do this._

And yet…

Out of all the beings aboard the scorched, battered _Legacy_ , Silver knew the lad best. And to voice his misgivings, to profess his doubts would, he knew, only serve to stiffen the boy's resolve, because that was simply who Jim was – stubborn, brave, shining Jimbo, already glowing like a solar fire and rattling every star in the whole damn Eitherium right now, just by being here, being him, Jimbo with his makings of greatness and glimmering sails and determined, pale blue eyes, Jimbo was charting his own course and sticking to it no matter the squalls, Jimbo _did not need_ to do this, _Jimbo, please, don't do this…_

But he could not stop the lad. Jimbo would go on with or without his acquiescence; and Silver knew better than to try and hold him back, to keep him in the hangar when skiffs were meant to sail. To dim his glow when stars, he knew, were meant to _shine_.

So he swallowed his protests; he knew that to keep his silence was not the act of a hero; knew that it was nowhere close to the courage the other was displaying – yet, in this moment, it was the bravest thing he could do.

And Jimbo tore his gaze away, turned his head to face the bloodred skies – Silver couldn't see his expression, but didn't need to; he was sure there was no uncertainty or fear there, no hesitation at all; but there would be a furrowing of the brow and a narrowing of the eyes, a setting of the jaw, a firming of the mouth, a squaring of the shoulders, a tilting of the chin, that spoke of determination and courage. Jimbo's boot rose, and fell again; his heel hit a glowing, bright yellow button and the slim metal craft shot forward suddenly, a spray of flame forcing Silver to step back and shield his face.

Once it had ended, he wasted not a second; dropping his arms and leaning out anxiously over the rail of the ship, his mismatched eyes sought the other – and there, he spotted his boy, effortlessly navigating the burning skies, a mere dot on the fiery horizon now, a barely-visible, distant speck. And he never tore his gaze away.

All he could do was watch.

And if that was all he could do; if he couldn't go with his boy and keep him safe, if he couldn't draw the child close to his chest and protect him from the flames and explosions, if he couldn't wrap his arms around the lad and offer himself in the other's place…if all he could do was watch, then _damn it, he was going to do that_.

So he watched.

He watched the tiny figure – weaving his way through the dangers, ducking to avoid the debris and shrapnel, swerving around rocks and veering past small fires and eruptions, always only a breath from the abyss and always moving, never slowing or stopping, a perpetual motion in the skies.

There was an instant in which the lad was not in motion; in which he paused, in which he hung, suspended, in the air, in which the surfer sputtered to a sparking stop and the cyborg's heart nearly stopped _beating_ within his chest, and all he could do was watch; and then the lad pounded his heel upon the power button, the vessel flared to life, and Silver could breathe once more.

" _Five seconds 'til planet's destruction!"_ BEN's panicked voice broke through the pirate's reverie; there was an instant, a space of perhaps thirty seconds, in which rocks and explosions and flames were jumping and soaring and erupting from seemingly everywhere at once – an instant in which Silver's cabin boy disappeared from view, and the cook, never a religious man, sent up a quick, frantic prayer to any deity who might willingly listen to a pirate.

" _Four…"_

 _C'mon, where was he?_

" _Three…"_

And then something shot past the ship – something small and quick and extremely soundless, with a figure kneeling upon it, one hand outstretched; his fingers were shaking as he sped past the glistening green map, and for a breathless second, Silver did not think he would make contact.

" _Two…"_

Small fingers connected solidly with a small, crescent shape in the middle of the map, and Silver saw raging orange fire change to a dark, star-spangled blue.

"… _one…"_

They burst through the portal.

Behind them, Treasure Planet burst into flame, and the explosions, even from this side, were impossibly loud – nearly deafening. Silver could scarcely resist the urge to cover his ears with his hands just to escape the sound. Yet he was also smiling – grinning like a fool, smiling so hard it _hurt_ because things had worked out, everything had worked out; the lad had survived and saved the crew to boot, had acted with a bright bravery and selflessness, had acted as a hero would. So even as the infernos raged behind them, he smiled, turning to look at his cabin boy – Jimbo needed to hear how proud he was, he needed to see Jimbo, he needed to see the kid's sparkling eyes and huge smile, he needed to say something to the lad, he needed…he needed—

" _Jimbo!"_ The cry tumbled off his lips without his conscious consent as horror gripped him; Jimbo – brave, stubborn, shining Jimbo – lifted a weary head, turned upon the shouting pirate a weary gaze; Jimbo, kneeling shakily upon the solar surfer, lifted a reddish, flaking hand, curled the scorched fingers into a fist and pummeled the glowing button, the action desperate and repeated.

And Jimbo, weary, trembling, wounded Jimbo, shot toward the ship upon a dying vessel, a damaged, smoking surfer; and Silver couldn't accept that the boy upon the craft was damaged, too.

The surfer sputtered, threatening to halt – Silver's heart rebelled, crawling upward into his throat and threatening to cease beating altogether – and Jimbo pounded once more upon the power button, determination clear in his features; there was an instant in which his lips twitched, threatening something like a grimace, and Silver knew he must be hiding or stifling his pain.

When the lad reached the ship, the surfer was still sizzling and protesting, still hissing and sputtering, and it seemed a miracle that both machine and boy had made it this far. Jimbo slipped slowly from the metal craft onto the deck; he stood absolutely still for a moment, drawing in one deep, ragged breath after another, chest heaving with the force of the gasps. And then, abruptly, without any sort of warning at all, he dropped heavily to his knees, burned hands rising halfway, moving toward his bare, blistered chest; his shirt had been torn, or likely burned, away – a few blackened, tattered bits clung stubbornly to the scorched skin.

"Jimbo…" Silver knelt at the child's side – it was an immediate, instinctive reaction.

"Silver." The other turned to face him, stretching cracked, dry lips into something resembling a smile; when their gazes locked, Silver could swear that there was something missing in the other pair – there was nothing, he thought, precisely wrong, but there was something very clearly _not right._

"Mr. Hawkins?" The captain slowly lowered herself to the deck before the lad, green gaze raking over the injured child, lips firming as she noted his condition.

Somewhere beyond Silver's field of vision, the crazy copper robot Jimbo had picked up somewhere on Treasure Planet called shakily, "J-Jimmy?!"

"I'm…I'm fine." The boy tore his gaze from Silver, turning instead to look at those calling his name. "I'm fine, guys. _Really_."

The captain examined him coolly for a moment, eyes sweeping critically over him. At last, she spoke, voice detached and professional. "Mr. Hawkins, are you in pain?"

"Considerin' he's burned off half his _skin_ ," Silver bit out, thoroughly annoyed. Why was she wasting time with the unimportant inquiries? _Of course_ the lad must be in pain, so why was she pestering him with silly questions?

Jim's brow knitted. "No, I didn't."

The cyborg sent him such an incredulous look that the boy evidently decided to see for himself; he slowly lifted his hands from his lap, gazing at them in surprise. When his blue eyes fell upon his chest, the reaction was even stronger. "I… _I_ did that?"

"Jimbo…" Silver could not have said why, but this was unsettling him, "can't you…can't you _feel_ it?"

"No." The boy shook his head for emphasis, clenching and unclenching his fingers experimentally.

"It doesn't hurt?"

"Not really."

"That's what I thought," the captain said grimly.

"Wh-what's wrong?" Silver sputtered, glancing quickly between the two, desperation taking hold. _Was something wrong with his Jimbo?_

"It means we must get him to the spaceport and quickly. Doctor, increase our speed as much as safety will allow; Mr. Silver, let us get Mr. Hawkins comfortable and safe—

"I'm okay, it was just a little fire – really, it wasn't more than a _spark_ —

"Is Jimmy okay?"

"Mr. Hawkins should make a full recovery – provided we reach the spaceport and—

"Can I give Jimmy a hug?"

"That wouldn't be wise in his condition—

" _Guys_ ," Jim interrupted, his voice dripping annoyance – of course it was, Silver thought; kid hated when people worried over him, hated when others thought him weak or incapable. The lad pushed himself impatiently to his feet and pushed a few windblown wisps of matted brown hair aside; there was a slight tremor to his legs, but he remained upright for the moment. "I'm _okay_ , see—

And then, for the second time, he crumpled, collapsing once more upon the deck – and this time, Silver realized, and fear took hold, clenching spindly, strong fingers around his arm, wrapping inescapable, unforgiving arms around his chest and stilling him; this time, the lad's eyes slipped closed and he fell limply against the cyborg's flesh arm.

"Jimbo!"

"Jimmy!" BEN shrieked.

"Keep your heads!" the captain barked. "He'll be alright, this is an ordinary reaction! He's likely going into shock, but if we can reach the spaceport soon enough, he'll recover."

"Can' we move any faster?" Silver hollered.

"We're going as fast as we can!" The doctor practically snarled back at him. "The thrusters are only functioning at thirty-five percent capacity or don't you remember?"

"I don't give a damn about capacity!" The cyborg roared. "Just so long as we get 'er docked and make sure my boy has what he needs!" Instinctively, he raked his thin metallic fingers through the boy's tangled brown locks – he couldn't be sure whether he was attempting to comfort the child or reassure himself.

BEN burst into distressed, noisy tears. "J-just hang in there, little buddy! H-hang in there, Jimmy!"

"Oh, for God's sake," the captain interjected, "Will _anyone_ in this creaking tub remain calm?"

"Isn't there anything we can do for him _now_?" Silver demanded, gathering the lad up into his arms, cradling the child close to his chest; when the boy breathed in, the cyborg noted, there was the slightest hitch, the smallest stutter in the pattern, and he wondered if he was the only one who noticed this. "Get him…get him in our last skiff or something?"

"Our last skiff was…destroyed," the captain responded carefully, coming to crouch on her knees upon the deck, regarding Silver and the boy in his arms; her gaze was soft when resting upon the child he cradled. "The doctor had to take the helm on Treasure Planet…" she jerked her chin in the direction of the canine at the wheel. "I couldn't steer. He tried to learn how everything worked at once, accidentally pressed the button to deploy all longboats and…" She lifted her shoulders, indicating helplessness.

"There must be something else," Silver countered instantly, desperation gnawing at him. "There's gotta be, there has to be somethin' else I can do to help him…"

"Keep an eye on him," the woman ordered immediately. "Check his pulse every few minutes, keep his airways clear, make sure he's breathing. Just make sure he remains stable."

"Right. Right." The cook dropped his eyes to the lad in his arms, placing flesh fingers upon the small, blistered wrist; it made the pirate sick to feel the bumpy, raised skin there, rough and leathery. Jim's pulse was faint but prominent, pumping endlessly beneath scarring skin, and Silver exhaled softly; for the shortest instant, there was a hint of something almost like relief rising within him, but it didn't last long; one look at the boy was enough to sober him once more. His boy was badly hurt; they _needed_ to get to the spaceport.

"You're okay," he murmured, resting his chin atop the boy's wayward locks. "You're okay…" Slipping trembling fingers back down to the boy's burned wrist. "…you're okay, Jimbo…you're alright, you're _perfect_ …"

Silver could never be sure how long he remained there, kneeling upon the deck and cradling the boy in his arms, eyes glued to the trembling, seared chest to be sure it still rose and fell, as it should; he ran shaking fingers through the lad's tangled brown hair, stroking and smoothing the rough, dark strands and hoping that the sensation might rouse the child, that he might stir, that his eyes might open and he might smile, that he might push Silver away, that he might stand on his own, he might speak and move again, because he was a child, and children never stopped moving.

"We're nearing the spaceport!" The doctor's high, nervous voice carried a tangible edge of hope as he twisted the wheel. "It shouldn't be much longer now!"

"Ya hear that, Jimbo?" A smile started upon Silver's lips, shaky and small, as he turned his attention back upon the boy in his arms. "Ya hear that? You're almost there…you're almost home…"

And as he brushed the child's hair from his eyes; as he ran gentle fingers through the matted locks; as he gazed desperately down into the still, unsmiling face, the boy _moved_.

The boy moved; his lashes fluttered and his lips parted; his lids slowly lifted and weary, pale blue eyes met mismatched green and gold; there was no expression or emotion, no hint of recognition in the child's gaze.

"That's it, Jimbo," Silver whispered; he found a lump forming rapidly in his throat, and feared he might cry here. "That's it, Jimbo – we're gettin' real near that spaceport over there, and then they're gonna take a look at you, and they're gonna fix ya up real nice, and you'll be okay, you'll be _fine_ …"

The lad gazed up at him, and there was nothing in his eyes, nothing in his face that spoke of comprehension. There appeared, for a few frightening moments, to be nothing within him at all.

"J-Jimbo?"

"Ugh…" The boy sat suddenly upright then; a strange, seemingly involuntary and rather violent shudder seemed to pass through him – he drew in a long, slow breath, as though he feared he might not get another, and then fell against the cook once more. The sensation – the teenager's warm weight, pressing lightly into his legs and chest – frightened Silver for reasons he could not begin to explain. Raking flesh fingers desperately along the lad's cheek, he rasped quietly, "J-Jimbo?"

He received no response, and realized he had not expected one – yet the reality of it still scared him. "Jimbo, no…no, no, no, _no_ …no… _Jimbo_ …I told ya…we're goin' to the spaceport, so ya gotta wake up…Jimbo…"

"Is Mr. Hawkins faring adequately?" If Silver did not know her better, he might hazard a guess that there was genuine concern in the feline's voice.

He tore his eyes from the child, delivering a hasty, fearful report. "I—I don' know. He woke up again, looked at me – didn' say anythin', and sorta…sorta shook, and then went back down…"

The sight of the captain was enough to remind him of the task she had set him previously; lowering his gaze to the lad once more, he slowly reached for the burned wrist. His flesh fingers were fumbling and clumsy, but he at last managed to wrap them firmly around the small arm – he scarcely noticed the rough sensation of blistered skin now.

"Silver…" The captain sounded uncharacteristically gentle when she spoke.

" _What?"_ His voice was harsh, ragged; broken, like himself – he awaited her response for only a second longer before he directed his words at the child in his arms; his tone softened then. "C'mon, lad, gotta wake up, now…c'mon, lad…" Seconds passed in breathless, trembling silence; Silver awaited the movement, the soft beat beneath the skin that meant his boy was still there, still fighting. "Jimbo…"

"Silver…" The feline extended a slim hand, motioning to the damaged chest – when he looked at it again, he noticed with a horrible jolt just how very _still_ it was…motionless and frozen and—and— _no._

He couldn't think like that, couldn't stand it; the lad was alright, he must be, they were too close now for him to just give up…his boy did not give up. He'd seen that with his own eyes. His boy was no quitter. No, the lad was a _fighter_.

"C'mon, Jimbo…" he murmured, lifting his hand from the child's wrist and lowering it slowly down; heat rolled off the bare torso in waves, and Silver wondered – just out of interest, vague curiosity, really, certainly nothing to do with the child – he wondered how much warmth the human body could stand.

"Jimbo, Jimbo, c'mon, lad, open your eyes, open up and look at me…c'mon, ya gotta look at me, just gotta open your eyes…you can do that, can't ya? 'Course ya can, ya can do anythin', I know ya can, ya can rattle the _stars_ if ya want…and all ya gotta do is open your eyes…" Beneath his fingers, the child remained perfectly still.

"Silver—

"He's _fine_!" The boy hadn't drawn breath for the last five minutes.

"Silver, listen—

" _He's fucking fine!"_ The words ripped from his throat in the form of a scream; he turned his attention immediately back upon the lad, stroking his hair and cheeks and eyelids, whispering meaningless comforts in his ears. "C'mon, c'mon, you're okay, you're fine, Jimbo, lad, you're perfect, you're absolutely fucking perfect, but ya gotta open your eyes and ya gotta…gotta go on a-and test the cut of your sails, remember? Remember what we talked 'bout, remember what I said? So ya gotta open your eyes for me…c'mon, lad, look at me…" His voice trembled, though he meant it to be an order. _Stubborn lad never could take orders_.

" _Look_ at me, James Hawkins!" He hollered, and he was shaking all over. " _Just open your fucking eyes and look_!"

Somewhere beyond his field of vision, the robot started to cry again; Silver could not stand the sound, but found he couldn't open his lips and form a reprimand.

"Silver." The proud captain knelt upon the deck once more. "He's gone." There was honest sorrow in her cool voice.

"No. _No_ , he's just…just p-passed out or…or sleepin', or—or… _no_ …"

" _Jimmy,"_ the robot sobbed, somewhere out of sight.

"No, no, no, no, he's fine…" Silver protested. "No…no… _Jimbo_ …" But he'd known, ever since he'd seen the burns, ever since the child had said it didn't hurt, ever since he'd stumbled and hit the deck, crouched there upon his knees, even then he had known somewhere deep inside himself…and he had ignored it…

He had known the truth, and suppressed it; now, he thought he might die with the pain of it.

Jimbo was gone.

His cabin boy, his child, his star, his Jimbo, was gone, and this still, silent body in his arms, this frozen and motionless lad, this weak ghost, this pale echo of who his boy had been…this was all that remained.

" _Jimbo…"_

Those blue eyes weren't going to open. That had been the last time he saw them, when they were weary and empty and devoid of everything that made him Jimbo…and when the lad had stood and promised he was fine…that was the last time he'd heard his voice, and that day in the skiff had been the last time he'd heard the child laugh, and the last time he'd seen him smile, and he would never get to see that smile or hear that laugh again, never get to hear that voice or look into those eyes, never get to hug or hold the boy, never tease him, never tell him another joke just to see him roll his eyes, never weigh him down with the most enormous workload just to see if he'd complain, the last time he'd seen him, and he hadn't known, he hadn't even gotten to say goodbye or tell the boy he was sorry, hadn't even gotten to put into words how much he loved his cabin boy.

His boy had saved them – and in doing so, had risked his life and gambled away his very existence.

Next time, Silver thought – and it was a shock to realize there wouldn't be a next time – next time, his boy shouldn't gamble something irreplaceable.

His boy had saved them, and he shouldn't have.

James Hawkins was a fucking _hero_.


	8. Ever After

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: Holy shit. Holy fucking fuck. This is the longest chapter I have EVER done, EVER. I am so unreasonably proud of myself. xD**

 **So, firstly, this is dedicated to Silverwolf407, who wanted to see the events of Family Matters through Silver's panicked, papa-wolf eyes. I didn't think, when accepting the request, that it would turn into such a huge, time-consuming project - but it did, and you know what? I'm really glad it did. It was truly one of the most fun challenges I ever set myself, and while it's certainly not perfect, I feel it's adequate. There are even more than a few passages I can say I'm proud of :)**

 **Anyway, I promised to reward myself with a marathon weekend of How to Train Your Dragon - films, seasons, everything - when I finished this, so I'm really looking forward to that.**

 **Lastly, this is something I've been meaning to address for quite awhile - a lot of people have requested several times that I either remove the swear words entirely from this fic, or at least use "softer" swears. In other words, to please stop using the F word. To be honest, though, I...I can't oblige you. If it offends you, it was not my intention. But I told myself, when I began writing this fic, that I wouldn't censor myself on it and I'm sticking to that. I don't drop it in randomly, either - I put it in when it needs to be there, and take it out when it doesn't. And if it offends you that much, you might not want to continue reading this fic.**

 **Next chapter will most likely be _Stay_ \- a rather-short, first-person Jim-POV one-shot delving deeper into a scene in the film. Please review, and please enjoy! **

* * *

Silver felt the day had been nearly perfect.

Which, of course, was a sure sign that something was getting ready to go _wrong_.

Some had called it paranoia, and others referred to it as premonition; still more had said it was a strong pessimism, but the pirate in question preferred to think of it as a healthy dose of realism. There were people out there, of course, who still believed in fairy tales and Silver applauded them – but the real world, he knew, was going to yank them up and drop-kick their optimistic little asses six ways from Sunday until they got the message: life was not perfect. Life wasn't like a book, it didn't open with once upon a time or end with happily ever after; and it certainly didn't come gift-wrapped for you, and bad things weren't tied up with bright red bows, so neat and colorful you could almost believe it had happened for a reason. Call him cynical, but he knew how the world worked; and sometimes, bad things just happened and you couldn't tie them up or use them or make them better; life just _happened_ , and that was that.

Perhaps if he had received his once upon a time, he thought, he might feel personally more inclined to believe the storybooks he'd read; but it made sense to him, in a way, that things ought to end as they had begun, and if his life had started out as the farthest thing from a fairy tale, it stood to reason that there was no happily ever after in his future. And he was, truthfully, perfectly content with that. There had been a time when thoughts such as these inspired bitterness and resentment; a time when he believed good things happened to all but him; a time when he still believed in fairy tales, and hoped against hope that a magical godmother or perhaps a flying boy in green would appear to him and lead him to a fantasy world; a time when, despite his hopes, the world had let him know in the worst of ways that he was not wanted anywhere at all; but over time, he had developed a thick skin and a pseudo sunny outlook, wearing his smile like an impenetrable armor; now he knew he was not destined for a storybook life, and he had made his peace with the truth.

Yet when he looked at the boy, crouched beside him in the skiff – Jim Hawkins, he realized, made him want to believe in fairy tales; he wanted to believe that things could work out; if only for the kid's benefit, he wanted to believe that they could stay beside each other forever; that they could remain just as they were, in that moment, that they could remain like this for eternity; that they could keep sailing on through the stars, forget the Legacy entirely, forget the crew and the captain and the mutiny…forget the lives they'd led, abandon the world entirely, and simply start all over, and Jim would never have to know the truth about the man beside him.

But they had to go back, Silver realized, and gave himself a small shake; the wish was impossible and unattainable in its beauty, and it only persisted to remind him that it simply could not happen, in this or any universe; fairy tales did not exist, dreams did not come true, and to even dwell on the hope would, he knew, render the pain that much worse when it came.

But even so, when the two returned to the _Legacy_ , and set about tying up their skiff – laughing and cursing and teasing in the near-perfect darkness of the hangar – and at last settled back in the boat together, the cyborg could not help but hope that the day might turn out like a storybook, and end as it had begun.

He gave the boy a quick glance, turning hastily back to his own work to hide the grin on his face; kid didn't even notice he'd been looking – the lad seemed lost in his own thoughts. "If I could maneuver a skiff like that when I was your age," Silver began – he kept his voice low, so as not to startle the boy, "they'd be bowing in the streets when I walked by today!" He sank into a sloppy half-bow to emphasize the point before throwing himself heavily back onto the nearest bench; he rocked the little boat with his weight.

"I dunno." A faint pink blush tinted the kid's cheeks, and he shrugged off the compliment, but the cook noticed the smallest hint of a grin on the other's face when he turned away. "They weren't exactly singing my praises when I left home." The kid knelt, hastily finishing up his knot before sinking into the bench opposite the sea cook; Silver found his eyes straying to the rope, pride rearing up within him, a genuine smile playing around his lips when he noticed the fine workmanship of the knot. Jimbo drew his attention again, drawing a knee up to his chest and glancing up at the cook with a shy half-smile on his lips before adding softly, "But I'm gonna change all that."

"Are ya now?" Silver demanded, cupping a hand to let Morphy rest in his palm; he scratched the pink blob gently as he talked. "How so?"

"Uh…" Jim's smile threatened to slip for an instant; he rubbed at his upper arm self-consciously. "I got some plans," he said quickly, leaning back in the boat and clasping his hands comfortably behind himself and resting his head on them. "I'm gonna make people see me a little different." There was a sudden, strong confidence in his voice, and Silver registered a flicker of uncertainty.

"Sometimes…plans go astray," he responded gently. He wasn't sure how else to phrase it; he didn't want to rain on the lad's parade, but he didn't want to leave the kid thinking that he might return home and see his wishes magically come to fruition. This wasn't a storybook.

"Not this time," the child countered quietly, eyes slipping closed.

A quiet nearby hiss interrupted them, saving Silver from responding; the cook lifted his metal leg up onto the next bench over and pushed up his trouser leg to inspect it; the issue appeared to be a screw, wound in much too tight, and he lowered his flesh hand immediately to right the appendage. He closed his fingers around the screw and gave a sharp twist; he was unsuccessful, and came away nursing a reddened, smarting hand.

Morph watched him for a moment, concern clear in his big, innocent eyes before the little blob transformed into a shiny, metal wrench, hovering in midair, awaiting use.

"Oh," Silver smiled, grabbing up the gleaming tool in his fist gratefully, "thank you, Morphy." He righted the issue in silence, but when the wrench had risen into the air and transformed back into his normal, pink self, the lad across from him spoke, voice quiet.

"Uh…" The kid actually looked uncomfortable, and his hand crept back to his upper arm. "So…how'd that happen, anyway?"

Silver didn't need to ask what the lad was talking about; he dropped his gaze to his hand, opening and closing the metal fingers, curling and uncurling them experimentally. "Ye give up a few things…chasin' a dream."

"Was it worth it?" There was honest curiosity now and ill-disguised innocence in the child's voice; Silver lifted his eyes to the lad – when their gazes locked, a million insane and impossible thoughts jumped into the cook's mind. He could tell the kid the truth right now. He could lean over, he could drop his voice so no one would hear, and he could tell Jim to get out, to run. To escape on Treasure Planet, to do whatever it took to make it out alive. He could tell the kid right now. He could spill everything, he could show his cards, play his hand, and maybe the lad would get out.

And maybe, he thought, and looked away again, maybe the lad would hate him instead. People didn't forgive other people in the real world. People weren't deserving of forgiveness in the real world.

The meaning of the question sank in then, and Silver realized it was the same thing he had asked himself, on so many different occasions; waking up in the hospital, seeing gleaming metal where flesh should have been, and the faces of the dead floating hazily before his eyes, reminding him that he had almost become one of them, he had wondered then if he ought to give in before he found he had to give up anything else. He had never, he realized, looking down at the hand that should not have belonged to him, he had never had an answer for himself.

He thought, briefly, of Billy Bones – the aged, scaly corpse, sightless yellow eyes staring unseeingly into his. _Had it been worth it?_

He thought of the Benbow Inn, remembered orange flames licking the wooden walls, bright sparks leaping impossibly high, reaching for the dark Montressor skies. Had it been worth it?

He thought of the captain, and the doctor, and Mr. Arrow, and wondered if he could make it painless. He thought of the treasure, and how it would feel in his hands. He thought of the lad across from him, and wondered if he would have to hold a knife to that throat or put a bullet through that chest. He wondered if it would be worth it, in the end.

When he met the kid's gaze, he found the truth waiting upon his tongue. "I'm hopin' it is, Jimbo," he whispered; he rose from his seat and made his way over to the lad; slipping an arm around the small shoulders, he smiled, staring down into those pale blue eyes. Resting his head comfortably upon the rim of the boat and slipping his hat over his eyes, he added quietly, "I most surely am."

There was a moment of stillness, and then a weight upon his arm let him know the lad had settled back, too, leaning his head on the cook's shoulder.

There was something about the moment, the darkness and silence of the hangar, the warm weight of the child pressing against him, the contentment blooming in his chest, that made him believe, for a brief, fleeting instant, in fairy tales.

And then the moment ended.

Something huge, heavy and indefinable crashed into the side of the _Legacy_ , and sent the skiff spinning; the small wooden craft jumped and jolted, plunging wildly, every which way, from the impact; the force sent the two crashing, rather painfully, around in the little boat. Instinct had Silver flinging out a hand, flesh fingers grasping the rim of the boat; in this manner, he managed to save himself. Jim was not so lucky, he saw when he turned around. The cook reached out and made a wild grab for the other, but missed; the kid hit the floor on his hands and knees, colliding loudly with the bottom of the boat. The skiff gave one final, violent shudder before becoming still again.

Silver waited a moment, to be sure it was over, before kneeling slowly beside the lad. "Ye alrigh', Jimbo?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." The kid pushed a messy, windblown lock of hair out of his face, glancing worriedly at the cook. "What was that?" He voiced the question the pirate was still asking himself.

"Yer guess's as good as mine, lad." Silver deemed this the truest response; without wasting another second, he lifted the lad back on his feet by the kid's loose collar before jumping out of the skiff, onto the nearest platform. The skiff gave another violent shake behind him.

He could hear Jim stumbling around somewhere behind him, attempting to match his long strides, but he didn't slow, couldn't slow; his mind was abuzz with worst-case scenarios.

Call it paranoia; call it premonition; call it pessimism; it was, Silver knew, realism, it was realism that made fear rise up within him, that had him reaching for the button on his cyborg arm, that had him playing with the metal contraption until, with a click and a whirr, it had changed into a gun.

These dark thoughts appeared to be true when they reached the deck; everyone was tearing around the ship like their asses were on fire, and Silver noted a few had even begun cowering behind nearby barrels; the bravest stood, a bit fearfully, before the captain, awaiting her orders; still others hung uncertainly from the shrouds – when he appeared, they turned to him expectantly, as if awaiting orders.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, and prayed the nimrods would just listen to the captain for now. Couldn't they see it wasn't time yet? They mustn't reveal themselves until Treasure Planet, and the riches upon it, were theirs, and theirs only.

Silver brushed these thoughts aside and hurried over to the captain, mouth already open in preparation; yet the woman at the rail ignored him entirely, hands clasped behind her back, appearing completely unruffled, commands falling coolly from her lips. "Mr. Hands!" she barked, green eyes narrowing.

The pirate in question went absolutely still, yellow eyes darting fearfully between the feline captain and his true leader; Silver, gritting his teeth, felt he could have strangled the alien in that moment. How many times did he have to tell them that yes, playing the part convincingly would mean heeding this woman's every order, and how many times did he have to tell them that that meant treating him like a lowly cook? How many times did he have to remind them that he knew the disrespect was not intentional, and he wasn't going to slit their throats just because they couldn't fall at his feet every time he showed his face?

"Don't just stand there!" The captain continued impatiently, expression twisting in annoyance. "Those at the cannons are in need of assistance! Mr. Turnbuckle!" she added sharply, waving Mr. Hands away dismissively.

To his credit, the alien at the wheel did not even so much as look at Silver; he appeared to have eyes only for the feline captain, the absolute picture of obedience. Silver could have applauded him.

"Evasive action," the woman continued smoothly; raising her voice slightly, she called, "Mr. Scroop!"

When Silver turned to look, the arachnid pirate had already snapped to attention – yet the cyborg noticed one long, hairy leg slung half-inside a nearby barrel, and he wondered briefly if he even wanted to know what was occurring inside that violent mind.

"This is your final warning," the feline warned him, voice low and dangerous; Scroop's leg slid out of the barrel and he stared sulkily at her for a minute.

"Mr. Hawkins." Perhaps it was Silver's imagination, but the captain appeared to brighten slightly at the sight of a competent, clear-headed crew member. "Mr. Silver, excellent – you two are here. Mr. Silver, I expect you," she addressed the cook first, "to join Mr. Scroop and Mr. Hands at the cannons. Mr. Hawkins, as a precaution, you are to arm yourself. Remain on deck, you may be needed."

"Wha's going on?" Silver demanded, irritated now with the woman and her incessant commands; it have taken two extra seconds for her to explain herself before giving orders, but of course not.

But as it worked out, the feline had no time to respond; no matter, the answer soon became clear – a small, sleek black boat rose up suddenly beside them. From this standpoint, Silver could easily see it was at least four times smaller than the Legacy, and it looked completely non-threatening – but, he reminded himself, as the skull-and-crossbones symbol on their black flag came into view, looks could be deceiving.

"Pirates," the captain murmured, barely audible, under her breath.

From the corner of his eye, Silver saw Jimbo exchange a quick, significant glance with the feline; the cook did not have to have the intellect of Einstein to realize what they must be thinking of. The pirates were after the map.

 _Sorry, lads,_ Silver thought, eyes narrowing as he refocused his gaze upon the opposing craft, _but there's only room enough on this ship for one band of pirates._

"We must keep the scum at bay," the captain continued severely. "And, Mr. Silver, as I've said, you will be assisting Mr. Scroop and Mr. Hands with the cannons; Mr. Hawkins, you are to arm yourself and remain on deck."

Silver noticed his cabin boy's small hands clenching into tight fists at his sides. "Yes, ma'am." The kid looked pale and shaken; the cook had his mouth open and hand outstretched, halfway to the lad's shoulder, to ask if he was alright, to draw him closer and attempt to soothe him…but he could feel Scroop's yellow eyes boring into him. He could feel, he could sense the spider staring at him – and it was never a good idea, he reminded himself, to display affection or weakness in front of bloodthirsty lots such as these. He dropped his hand and turned away, crossing the deck to reach the cannons.

Silver reached the cannons and noticed, with no small annoyance, that Mr. Hands had remained perfectly still – he gazed so raptly at the approaching cook that the other concluded he must still be awaiting a command.

 _Oh, dear Flint_ , what in the universe had he done to deserve this pathetic lot? They fancied themselves pirates; they claimed to be conscienceless, cold-blooded criminals; but for all their talk and swagger, Silver had to admit, they were so green, it was honestly painful to see. This was what the great pirate, Captain Long John Silver, had been reduced to. It was very depressing.

But – and he gave himself a little shake – no one in recorded history had ever reached their goal by standing still. If an embarrassingly inexperienced crew was the price to pay for chasing a dream…well, it was kinder than other costs he'd found he had to pay.

So the pirate captain pushed away his impatience – the planet they sought drew closer by the day, after all, and to give away the mutiny would spell disaster for everyone involved – and painted a broad, practiced smile upon his browned face. "C'mon, lads!" He positioned himself behind the nearest cannon, wrapping his metal hand around the lever. "No pirates be boardin' this ship on our watch, tain' that right?" He carefully avoided Scroop's eyes as he spoke, despite knowing – or perhaps because he knew – that the spider was still looking at him. He didn't, he thought, have to defend or explain himself to the ax-crazy arachnid, of all people.

Still, he hesitated briefly before pressing down on the lever, and at last cast a quick glance at his fellow pirates to be sure they were following his lead.

Scroop stood at his right hand, yellow gaze fixed searchingly upon the captain; Silver looked away quickly, toward Mr. Hands instead – he was relieved to find the alien standing at his other side, extending his extra arms to control two cannons at once. At least the brainless brute was good for something, Silver thought.

Satisfied, the pirate captain turned his gaze toward the dark vessel once more, and began to fire.

Thin, red lines arced immediately from the gleaming black barrel; with the practiced eye of a long-time gunman, Silver swiveled the cannon this way and that, watching the bodies of opposing pirates fall around him; the deck of the smaller craft was soon littered with fallen men, either wounded or dead.

This, he thought with grim satisfaction, would teach them to try and mess with _his_ treasure.

Silver readjusted his grip on the lever by the slightest millimeter, dark eyes narrowing and jaw clenching in preparation of the battle ahead, strong metal fingers wrapping firmly around the cannon's switch, prepared to fire, prepared to take them down…

" _Take us away!"_ A stumbling, badly bleeding pirate – captain, by the looks of him – practically spat the words at his poor cringing, cowering helmsman. _"Get us out of here, get us out of here!"_

At the command, the smaller vessel suddenly pulled back, disappearing at once into the thick cloud cover; the dusky purple sky swallowed the opposing craft entirely, and the crew of the _Legacy_ were left peering anxiously around, expectant and tense.

Silver frowned in confusion, hesitantly loosening his iron grip on his cannon's lever and peering cautiously around the barrel.

What was going _on_? What were they _doing_? They couldn't be turning back…they couldn't be giving up. Why, they hadn't even laid eyes on the map itself! The promise of treasures beyond their wildest imaginings must have lured them from their homes, and the rumor of riches untold had tempted them onto a dangerous voyage, but if the pull wasn't strong enough to convince them to go through with it…well, Silver wasn't even sure the aliens in question could call themselves pirates, if this was the case.

Unless…

"They're retreating!"

Jim's youthful voice drew the pirate captain's attention, and he twisted to look; nearly everyone aboard the creaking wooden vessel had gathered in a tight cluster at the opposite rail – Silver spied his cabin boy pressed up against the thin metal bar, leaning out over it, presumably searching the skies for any sign of their enemies.

"Retreating?"

"Retreating?"

"Retreating, you said?"

The word – the hope – passed through the crew as a ripple disturbed still waters; a familiar, sinking feeling started in Silver's stomach, gnawing insistently at him. They weren't retreating, they couldn't be…it wasn't that they were cowardly, it wasn't that they were wounded, it wasn't that they were merely playing at piracy without any real idea of what that might mean…they weren't retreating…

"No." The feline captain's haughty voice rang out then, severe and cool, articulating the cyborg's thoughts; those at the rail turned their gazes upon her instead. "They're _rethinking_."

" _Oh."_ Every being gathered at the rail let the word fall from their lips, as if a collective sigh; shoulders slumped in defeat, or tensed in preparation for the approaching battle. Silver noticed his cabin boy was among those who tensed – even from this distance, he saw the small fingers twitch slightly upon the trigger, and wondered if the other anticipated or dreaded the thought that he might have to pull it.

The cyborg shook himself; tearing his gaze from the lad and turning it instead upon the skies, he saw that the opposing ship had not yet returned, not yet…but it would, of that he was sure.

In the brief stretch of peace, he did all he could – giving the cannon a quick prod to be sure it would turn, tugging gently at the levers to be sure they wouldn't stick, metal hand clicking softly in the stillness. And always, he kept his eyes upon the stars, gaze searching the darkening purple clouds for the smaller craft, and the aliens upon it. He must defend his treasure, and this was all he knew; he must take care that those green-skinned thugs calling themselves pirates mustn't make it to the ship, they mustn't lay a single, slimy _finger_ upon his map. This was all he knew – but it was enough.

When the sound came, however, he was not ready for it.

It was deafeningly loud and frighteningly close; Silver felt the deck beneath him beginning to pitch and roll – the _Legacy_ shuddered, as if upon a wild and stormy sea, rather than sailing through the farthest reaches of the galaxies, and the cyborg shut his eyes in sudden understanding; sudden _fear_.

The pirates, he realized, had just taken a risky, reckless, insane, all-or-nothing gamble. The pirates had blown up their ship. The pirates had self-destructed. The implications were clear: they were confident that they would succeed in this fight, so confident that they had abandoned their own vessel in the hopes of not only securing the map, but conquering the _Legacy_ and turning her into a pirate ship. And if the ship had exploded, then that meant…

Clarity hit Silver like a slap in the face.

"Men!" The feline captain sounded urgent, but composed; if Silver hadn't been so afraid himself, he might have even admired her nerve. "Abandon the cannons, they're of no use now!"

 _Because cannons are used for dealing with the larger threats, the solid ones,_ Silver thought to himself. _Because they're not made for picking off pirates one by one._

The cyborg obeyed her without question or resentment; this was one of those rare times in which he agreed with her absolutely, saw the sense in her commands, and had no wish to ignore them.

Arriving at his new position, he saw the captain had acted, not swiftly as he had thought, but rather, not a moment too soon; several pirates dangled from ropes hooked onto the side of the _Legacy_ , dragging themselves slowly up the thick cord.

With a click and whirr of the metal gears inside, Silver set his cyborg hand reforming into a gun, and took careful aim before pulling the trigger.

As he had predicted, the bullet caught the pirate in the ribs – it buried itself beneath the skin, digging through blood and muscle, tearing relentlessly through tendon, ceasing only when it found bone, and remaining lodged within the enemy, scarcely an inch from the heart. The alien screamed in agony and released his rope, plummeting downward; Silver watched without pity as he tumbled through the stars.

The cyborg soon lost himself in the fight; in the feel of the trigger beneath his fingers, in the sight of the pirates' shocked faces as their last moments happened upon them, in the sound of the bullets zipping past, some zinging harmlessly onward and out into space, others finding their targets and sending a helpless alien falling after the unfortunate first.

He registered vaguely that others gathered around him; that there were beings on either side of him, fighting alongside him, but if they remained at his side throughout the entirety of the battle or fell around him, collapsing to the deck clutching wounds…this was of no concern to the pirate captain, and he kept firing. He never took his finger off that trigger.

Yet Silver was not an invincible man; and when a particularly hefty pirate, taller and more muscular than he, stood before him, there was an instant of exhaustion – a split second of fatigue, a moment of weakness he should not have allowed himself – in which he did not move an inch. And the other took full advantage; dropping down into a crouch upon the wood, his opponent delivered a swift, sweeping kick that sent his legs flying out from underneath him, a kick that sent him falling heavily to the deck, gasping for air. Old, abused lungs begged for breath that he could not give, and the pain was so great that he did not immediately realize the position he had found himself in.

A sharp, sudden pain – stabbing and insistent – made itself known, digging unbearably into his cyborg arm; when he lifted his head to look, he saw a polished black boot cutting heavily into the metal. When he locked eyes with his captor, he saw no mercy in the other's gaze; there was only one way this story could end.

 _Makes sense, in a way,_ he couldn't help thinking, _the story ought to end as it's begun._

He drew in a deep breath and looked to the stars; he wanted to die staring into them, watching them shift and collide around him, gazing at the winking silvery beams.

 _The story ends as it's begun…the story ends as it's begun…it's only right that the story ends—_

" _Fuck!"_ The startled, pained cry jerked Silver out of his reverie, and was cause enough for him to lift his head; when this did not reveal the pirate's shining, menacing pistol fixing once more upon his chest, he rose still farther, preparing to bring himself upright.

" _Silver!"_ And suddenly, inexplicably, Jimbo was at his side, kneeling upon the deck before him, blue eyes wide and frightened. "S-silver?"

He could not find it in himself to respond; he lifted tired, dark eyes, gaze drifting slowly round the _Legacy_ , seeking the pirate who had so nearly become his killer. He found him at last, a crumpled and bleeding mass upon the deck a mere ten feet away, and understanding came to him slowly, trickling through in fragmented bits.

There was a bullet in that pirate's knee, and there was a pistol in Jimbo's shaking hand. He rose shakily to his feet, welcoming the clarity, coming upon him in sudden, sharp bursts of emotion.

His cabin boy had saved him. His cabin boy had shot that pirate looming over him; his cabin boy had stopped that pirate from killing him. He would be dead now if it weren't for the kid before him, uncertain blue eyes tracking the sea cook's every move. His cabin boy had just saved his life.

As the enormity of the deed crashed upon him, he opened his lips – the midst of a heated, full-scale battle was not the best time for him to express his gratitude, but he didn't care – but before he could make a sound, a sharp shout from the captain reached his ears.

"Mr. Silver!"

He turned instinctively at her call, and appreciation turned to fear in an instant – call it paranoia; call it premonition; call it pessimism; but alarm seized him, and as he raced toward the feline, he had already, unconsciously, begun to prepare for the worst. The pirates could have gotten the map; the pirates could have secured a hostage; the pirates could have gained access to the self-destruct function of the _Legacy_ , and issued a threat to use it…damn it, why had he let himself get sidetracked by that _one_ alien? If anything had happened that he might have been able to prevent—

A sudden cry from somewhere behind broke through Silver's thoughts.

The sound was short and sharp, and it was over within seconds, yet there was something within it – maybe it was pain, perhaps it was fear, or simply a considerable amount of surprise, that had the cook turning on the spot; he turned away from the captain, abandoning his earlier quest, and sought the source of the noise.

He didn't have time to prepare for the worst before the worst was right in front of him.

There his cabin boy lay, limbs spread-eagle upon the deck; shining, scarlet blood gushed in a thick, continuous stream from his sleeve, gathering around the lad in a gleaming crimson pool.

And for a moment, all Silver knew was _fear_.

" _Jimbo!"_ Silver sank at once to his knees beside the injured lad, reaching to explore and aid the injury; but movement, somewhere just outside of his vision, distracted him and when he lifted his head, he saw the alien who had so nearly ended his life. The pirate knelt upon the deck, balanced on his unwounded knee, a savage grin stretching his lips, smoking pistol in hand.

Blind fury overwhelmed the pirate captain, and he reacted without thought; he knew his arm was rising into the air, knew the metal was clicking and whirring and transforming back into the rifle; felt it when his finger hit the trigger, watched the bullet burst from the barrel and soar into the air, colliding with the smirking pirate. It caught the alien directly in the chest, and the being was dead before he hit the ground.

Silver watched the scene with a red tint in his vision and a savage triumph in his heart. A grim smile twisted his lips. That, he thought with great satisfaction, would teach them to try and mess with _his_ treasure.

Wait. Wait. Did he…did he just liken this kid to—

A quiet groan had him forgetting his misstep in an instant; grin fading quickly from his face, the cyborg let his gaze drop to his cabin boy, recalling the injury, the blood blooming and blossoming around him, surrounding him like a steady, unstoppable tide. "Jimbo…c'mon, Jimbo, yer alrigh', lad, yer alrigh'…" He prodded the boy, gently as he could, hoping the sensation would prompt the other to twist or turn or even look at him; but the only thing about the boy that moved was his chest, rising and falling in a comforting rhythm. Silver locked his hand under the small chin, tugging it up slowly to get a look at the lad's face; the kid was already out like a light, head lolling limply to one side.

"Mr. Silver!"

When the sea cook, with an effort, tore his gaze from the lad's paling face, and spotted the captain striding toward them, he registered something strangely akin to relief. "Cap'n!"

"Mr. Silver, the pirates—

"Jimbo got shot." Silver couldn't keep the words inside any longer; they burst from his lips, panic thick within them. "They shot Jimbo, he's out, he's passed out, they shot him, I don' like how much blood I'm seein'—

"Then leave him with the doctor and get on with it." The words were cool and unsympathetic, but not spoken so; there seemed no room left in her voice for cruelty. "You're needed elsewhere, the pirates are ransacking the crew's quarters – seeking valuables, I suspect."

"Th' doctor don' know his own ass from a hole in the _ground_!" Silver argued. "I can' leave Jimbo with _him_!"

"Mr. Silver, under ordinary circumstances, I would absolutely love an opportunity to argue, but this is not the time! I assure you, Mr. Hawkins will receive any aid his condition warrants once this is over – and now, I expect you down in the crew's quarters, helping to run these pirates off my ship!" The captain finished, her words low and dangerous, nearly a hiss – she locked gazes with the cyborg, emerald eyes flashing warningly.

There was not a single bit of Silver that felt even remotely _okay_ about it; every part of him revolted and rebelled, choice words spilling freely onto his tongue, fighting for a spot, struggling to be said, pushing against the inside of his lips, longing to tumble out into the open air; everything about him was frustration and fear, everything about him was rage and resentment and hesitation, everything in him wanted to resist, for Flint's sake who _cared_ for the silly trinkets the pirates might find in the crew's quarters, there was nothing in there of value…

But Silver was a pirate first; and a man second.

So he recalled himself, and recalled his position – recalled that he stood upon the deck before the captain, recalled that he stood in plain sight of his crew; recalled that to raise a protest would be to raise a suspicion. And much as he longed to refute or resist, to ignore or even openly disobey the feline captain's orders – he could not risk it.

He swallowed back everything – every argument, every shout, every angry word, every furious curse – and spoke quietly, voice colored and tinted with regret. "I see yer point, Cap'n," he murmured; and he knelt, as if in a trance, old knees protesting against unforgiving wood. It was not even an effort to lift the injured lad from the cool, crimson-stained deck, to gather the kid in his arms – when met with Silver's considerable strength, the youth weighed nearly nothing. The only difficulty he honestly encountered was, in his attempts to be gentle, when he slipped his cyborg hand beneath the wounded arm, cradling the injury in an iron palm – the metal soon grew slick and slippery with blood, and the sensation made Silver shudder slightly. He hoped to gods the lad would stay under; he prayed the kid wouldn't come to until they had retrieved the bullet, that he wouldn't have to awaken and feel the pain.

Upon approaching the doctor, Silver did not waste time with the pleasantries. "Jimbo got hurt," he explained gruffly, and moved to place the bleeding lad in the other's arms.

However, the canine paled dangerously, sagging back against the rail, and gasped, "Oh…oh, my goodness…w-well…I…I…uh…"

"Cap'n suggested I leave him wit' you." The pirate captain made no attempt to conceal or bury the contempt coloring his tone; he wished it to be perfectly clear that to leave his cabin boy to the hands of the inept canine had not been his desire.

"I've never dealt with wounds of this magnitude before!" The doctor protested weakly; his hands gave a faint flutter. He tugged nervously at his maroon overcoat before clasping his fingers fearfully over his chest, dark eyes still fixed upon the cabin boy.

"It don' matter," Silver responded impatiently; he was right, he shouldn't be leaving Jimbo with the incapable canine – yet, at present, it was the most sensible thing he could do. "All we 'spect ya to do is make sure he's alrigh' until someone else can come in and look after him proper." _Someone with both halves of their brain._

"Oh." The doctor took another step closer to the rail. He gulped, and wrung his hands. He made no move to take the child from the cook. "Right."

"Ya jus' take him," Silver continued, as it seemed he'd have to walk the other through this, "and I gotta get down to the crew's quarters and you…you look after th' kid, alrigh'?" _You look after the kid or I send you back to Montressor in pieces._

"Right. Right. Right." The doctor nodded his head vigorously, stepping nervously toward the cook and extending shaking, thin arms to relieve the cyborg of his burden.

Silver cradled the lad slightly closer, reluctant to release him; but the sooner he ran these blasted pirates off the ship, he reminded himself, the sooner he could get a better look at that wound, and attempt to retrieve the bullet. The sooner he could ease Jimbo's pain. The sooner he could make sure the lad was alright. And that was what mattered now.

He let the boy fall into the canine's arms and sped without a word across the deck, down to the crew's quarters. He did not allow himself a look back.

He could not, with honesty, say he well remembered the following battle; he recalled it only as a blur, a haze of bullets soaring past him, of guns firing around him, of bodies falling and striking the wood with considerable force, shaking the floor with their impact; it was the sharp, familiar scent of copious blood, falling heavily upon his nostrils, it was the sound and smell and sensation of death surrounding him, filling him up and weighing him down until he believed he could scarcely lift his gun.

And then it was over.

Suddenly, all was silence; guns lowered and grips slackened until the gleaming weapons left bloodstained hands and fell to the wood with noisy clatters; those who stood upright remained upright, and those who had fallen did not move an inch; for an instant, all became perfectly still – and that instant was time enough for the cyborg to hear the shout from above.

"There it is!"

"Planet ho!"

"Treasure Planet!"

"Treasure Planet." There was ill-disguised longing in the way Silver spoke the words; he was mere moments away from racing up to the deck and forgetting the pirates entirely – yet something held him back, something rooted him to the spot, something in him protested… They _couldn't_ have reached Treasure Planet yet. If the few conversations he had overheard between the captain and the doctor were anything to go on, they would not reach their destination for another week or two – and that would be at a good pace, wouldn't it, at a rather demanding speed in reasonably fair weather, and it was just impossible, unbelievable, these pirates had slowed them down, they should be farther away from the planet by now, not closer than ever, not nearly upon it…

"Treasure Planet!" The sudden whoop of joy broke through the cook's reverie; when he looked round, he spotted the pirates barreling toward the steps, howling and clamoring, exclaiming over the loot of a thousand worlds, the plunder they were to soon see and possess. One of the stronger and burlier of the bunch pushed roughly past Silver on his way up to the deck, and sent the cyborg crashing to the floor – he found himself sprawled painfully and gracelessly upon the wood, curled up close to the fallen, bloody corpses of those who had not witnessed the end to the battle. It was then that Silver realized he lay in a sticky, scarlet pool of still-warm blood; the thought jolted him. No, forget that – it unnerved him. He rose slowly, gaze fixed upon the thick crimson droplets quivering upon his sleeve, soaking steadily through the dark fabric, staining it. He climbed shakily to his feet and, for a moment, he did nothing but gaze at the lifeless pirates – the sight should have saddened him. Looking at their spread-eagle limbs, sprawling wildly about upon the bloodstained wood, staring down at their bullet-riddled, still-bleeding bodies, skin torn open, muscles wrenched and twisted, bones snapped in two and three sharp white fragments poking slightly out from under the colorless, cooling flesh, Silver knew the sight should have saddened him. There was a bit of him that wanted to see it and be saddened – there was a bit of him, he knew, that still wanted to be _human_.

But then the screams from above reached his ears, and he turned swiftly away, ascending the steps with eager haste – no, he had no time to waste sniveling, or wanting to, over fallen pirates, _enemy_ pirates at that. If they had truly reached their destination…if they had actually arrived, if they had genuinely closed the distance, if they were upon it at last…

When Silver arrived upon the deck, he did not spare the beings around him a second glance; he kept his gaze upon the skies instead, eyes hopefully raking the star-studded heavens, heart beating uncomfortably fast in his chest – and though the atmosphere was startlingly alive around them, though it bustled and burst, teeming with life and color and activity, though the stars twinkled serenely down upon them, throwing a cool silvery glow upon the battered deck of their ship, the skies above were utterly devoid of the one thing he sought so valiantly.

Disappointment bloomed, unbearably strong within him, and he fell against the rail, turning slowly to survey the other beings aboard the _Legacy_ ; the sight was explanation enough.

Staring at the captured pirates, bound and threatened into near-submission, Silver realized the shouts had served their purpose: the captain had intended them to distract the pirates, to mislead, to beguile, and it had worked. The cyborg supposed _he_ ought to have seen through the ploy, and the realization that he hadn't made him feel rather thick-headed.

"Mr. Turnbuckle!" Captain Amelia's cool, haughty voice carried over to the dispirited cook, and he lifted his head slightly; the smallest of smiles curled her small, thin mouth and her large green eyes shone with the victory. "Set a course for the nearest spaceport! Let's get this scum off my ship." She nudged a restrained, heavyset alien with the toe of her thigh-high boot as she spoke; the being hissed, struggling fruitlessly in his ropes.

"Aye-aye, Captain!" Mr. Turnbuckle responded heartily, numberless limbs reaching to grasp the wheel as directed.

"They didn't get—?"

The captain shook her head sharply, and the doctor fell silent as if struck dumb.

So they had won then, the pirates hadn't gotten the map; the realization came slowly to Silver, but when it had reached him, it sent a surge of savage triumph searing through his chest – the sweet taste of victory was tainted only slightly by the bitter tang of disappointment. In the end, he supposed it was better that they had not reached the planet yet after all. There would have been next to no time for him to organize the mutiny, and those pirates would doubtless have made off with a share of the treasure; and then of course, the lad might have—

When he recalled the boy, he recalled the wounds; and his thoughts ground to a decisive halt.

The lad had been _hurt_ , his cabin boy, the bullets, the blood, the grinning pirate with the pistol in his hand, the pirate with the bullet in his knee, the cabin boy with the bullet in his arm, the dark red blood spreading out around him like a strange, horrid flower—

"Jimbo!" He pushed off from the rail and hobbled toward the doctor – yet the canine's arms were empty. "Where's Jimbo?" He demanded of the astrophysicist.

"I…I left him…" At the cyborg's burning look, the other elaborated. "I had to! When they saw him, the pirates, they…they attempted several times to…to finish the job, so to speak…some of them tried to finish _me,_ and they were very nearly successful, and eventually, I concluded we'd both be safer if I left him down within the galley – there is nothing of value there, I didn't think the pirates likely to venture—

Silver did not wait for the canine to finish his sentence; he turned abruptly away from the other, metal fingers folded into a tight fist, and descended the wooden stairs with tight, jerky movements.

His iron leg found the topmost step, falling it upon with a thud that seemed very loud to him in the sudden silence of the ship; as if to combat the quiet, faint murmurs broke out upon the deck – the captain spoke in a low voice to her first mate, issuing a command, or perhaps asking a question; either way, Silver couldn't make out the words, and found that for once, he didn't care to. He wanted only to reach the galley; to see the lad, to hold the small hand within his own and feel the warmth emanating from the quick fingers; to retrieve the bullet, to clean the blood, to see blue eyes staring back at him and know, beyond the slightest shadow of doubt, that his cabin boy was going to be alright.

The galley was dark and quiet when he reached it; everything was exactly as he and his cabin boy had left it – the barrel of rum in the corner, vegetables piled carelessly upon a wooden counter, awaiting their fate, the cauldron hanging empty above leftover embers and ashes. Silver _remembered_ leaving; he remembered racing down to the hangar; remembered the cabin boy somewhere behind him, shouting at him to _slow down, how the hell are you faster than me, you're a hundred years old!_ And Silver remembered reaching the hangar; remembered excitedly untying the skiff; remembered ruffling the kid's hair, remembered the kid pushing him away, yet there had been no real strength behind it, and when he finally took his hand away, Jim never smoothed the rumpled strands.

The galley looked exactly as it had when he had left it, but the people within were no longer the same.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Silver recalled his mission and tossed a quick glance round the comfortable wooden quarters; when his gaze fell upon the lad, he drew a sharp breath, silently cursing the doctor all to hell. The canine had left the kid sprawled upon a low wooden table, a thin cotton sheet spread out under him to keep the wood beneath clean; there was no grace or ceremony in the way the lad rested upon the sheet, and as Silver drew nearer, the sight grew increasingly frightening to his mismatched eyes. The pirates down within the crew's quarters couldn't hold a candle to this; though their motionless, colorless bodies lay lifeless upon red-stained wood; though their eyes stared sightless, their skin caked with crimson liquid, there was nothing remotely frightening or intimidating about them – but the sight of his cabin boy, sleeve torn open, blood running in a gleaming scarlet river, down his arm in a faint but steady trickle, clinging to his wrist and staining it an inky reddish-black…there was something indefinably horrifying about it all, and it sickened and saddened the cook. It seemed impossible, he thought, staring at the lad's fearfully pale face, that Jimbo had enough blood left _in_ him to leave through the hole. Silver reached out gentle, trembling flesh fingers – more than anything, he wanted to pull the boy up, draw him into a hug, to feel the warmth of the other's body against his, to feel the beat of the child's heart under his hand, touch some part of the wounded boy, just to be sure the still, paling body would move again.

"Mr. Silver?"

It was an effort to tear his gaze from his cabin boy; when Silver had managed it, when he locked eyes with the stern-spoken, severe first mate, it seemed to him he could not find the words within himself to form a reply.

Mr. Arrow did not seem to expect a response from the sea cook, for he continued without awaiting more than a second. "How is Mr. Hawkins faring?"

"Jimbo…" Silver ran shaking, browned fingers through stubborn dark strands. "Jimbo, he's…" It was suddenly an effort to swallow. "He's still bleedin', and he hasn' woken up, neither. I don' think he's doin' well. We gotta…we gotta do somethin' for him."

"The nearest spaceport," Mr. Arrow remarked calmly, "is more than an hour's time away. Do you believe Mr. Hawkins—?"

" _No_." Of this, Silver had no doubt. "If he's still bleedin'…I don' know, I don' like it. I don' think leavin' it for another hour is a good idea."

Arrow nodded; when he next spoke, his voice was cool and detached. "I will speak with the captain." The thump of boots upon the old wooden steps let Silver know that he was once again alone, but he found he did not care; he could only stare at the lad upon the table – pale, broken, bleeding, motionless. Inescapable – and very possibly irrational – built up in his chest at the sight; everything he'd told Mr. Arrow had been _true_ , he'd meant every word, he didn't think it wise to ignore the cabin boy's wounds any longer, but what could they do, save keeping a sharp watch for the spaceport, and getting the kid to an emergency care center the moment they docked? It wasn't as if Silver himself had any experience in the medical field; the sparse bits and pieces he had picked up from his life of piracy wouldn't be of any use here, he couldn't just pour some antibacterial ointment or slap some thick cotton gauze on over a _bullet hole_ , for Flint's sake…

"Mr. Silver?"

" _Cap'n,"_ the sea cook surprised himself; he felt no love for the feline being standing in the dark galley before him, but the sight of her was something of a relief. "Jimbo…he…tha' firs' mate of yers, he…the spaceport, I don't think we'll reach it in time, I don' think Jimbo—

"Mr. Arrow has informed me that Mr. Hawkins appears to be faring poorly," the captain cut sharply through the other's words, voice cool and crisp. "As it happens," she continued, unhurried, "I have a bit of knowledge in tending nasty wounds. I might be of assistance to Mr. Hawkins. If I could have your spot?"

"Oh." Silver did not want to leave the lad; he didn't want to tear his eyes from the whitened, bruising face or release the thin, bloodstained fingers; there was a bit of him that needed to stay here, needed to touch some part of the boy, to know by the warmth, by the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of the small chest, that the other was alright; but when he looked to the captain he knew, though he was loathe to admit it, which of them might serve a bigger purpose in this moment, and he obediently retreated. The fingers cradled gently in his solid palm never felt smaller or weaker than they did in this moment, when he must let them go, when he couldn't offer them his own strength. He backed slowly into the corner, mismatched eyes fixed anxiously upon the lad.

The captain bent slowly, without a word, over the unconscious boy – her long, thin fingers danced gracefully over torn skin, her quick emerald eyes sweeping over the still body, thin lips drawing decisively downward; Silver caught the fleeting flash of concern flitting across her features, and fear rose within him once more.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

The feline took a moment to reply; the words fell slowly from her lips – too slowly, in Silver's opinion. "Your…assessment of Mr. Hawkins…appears to be correct."

"Jimbo can' wait," Silver murmured; the words were quiet, meant only for himself, but the captain heard, and she shook her head.

"No, I don't believe it would be wise to leave him any longer. He's already in an extremely undesirable state…it _would_ be preferable to leave him to the professionals, but I don't think there's time – I don't think Mr. Hawkins has time enough to wait for the professionals."

"Y-you mean…?" Silver sputtered, brain whirling. _What the hell was this woman implying?_

"Yes," the captain did not allow him to complete his sentence. "If we attempt to take Mr. Hawkins to the spaceport, there will be no Mr. Hawkins when we get there."

" _No!"_ The cyborg nearly screamed the word at her, heart pumping fit to burst within his chest. "If tha's th' truth, we gotta do somethin' for him _now_! I don' care who it is, I'll do it myself if I have to—

"Mr. Silver, keep your head." It seemed incredible to the sea cook that the other _could_. "I will do the best I can with the knowledge and tools that I currently possess – I'm sure I don't have to explain the risks to you, but…" she left the sentence unfinished; when she glanced back at the cabin boy upon the table, there was something akin to fear in her pretty features. "I will go retrieve the items I require. Keep a watch on Mr. Hawkins – let me know if he…if his condition changes."

Silver nodded, but he was numb; he had eyes only for the cabin boy. When the captain had disappeared from the galley, boots thumping rhythmically upon each step, the cyborg drew slightly closer to the table, staring down at the lad lying upon it. He looked so _small_ suddenly, so very like a child. "Ye've done it this time, Jimbo." Silver wasn't quite sure what was within him, making him speak the words, pushing the sounds off his tongue, past his lips, and out into the air. "Ye've…ye've _really_ done it." The sea cook found he couldn't remain in one place; he could not keep staring down into that still, unresponsive face. He took to pacing, cyborg leg clacking and clattering against the galley floor. The noise was unnerving, but movement brought a small relief. "Why did ya do it?" He turned to face the lad for an instant, to stare down at the boy as if he honestly expected a response. "Why…what were ya _thinkin',_ Jimbo? What in the name of Captain Flint himself made ya think it was okay to go chargin' in like that and…and fling yourself straight into danger like that, huh? Thought ya were smart, I did. No, that's a lie. I know yer smart. Yer the most goddamn _brilliant_ kid in this or any galaxy, so why'd you pull somethin' so stupid? Do ya think yer _invincible_? Do ya think yer just…just immortal? Do ya think ya can' get hurt? _Then let this be a lesson to ya, lad_! I don' know why the hell you thought this was _any_ sort of alrigh', but…" Silver couldn't continue; he fell, exhausted, against the table, pressing his palms furiously into his eyes. The edge of the wooden table dug into his back. He remembered the kid, all sparkling eyes and windblown hair, steering the skiff, remembered how the kid made him believe in fairy tales even when he didn't want to, how the gun dangled from the lad's trembling fingers, how the boy knelt next to him upon the deck, how the kid had shot a pirate today, probably his first time ever holding a pistol, how the kid had saved him…

"I won't forgive ya!" Silver whirled round to stare furiously at the lad, vision tinting red, fingers curling involuntarily into fists. He slammed them down upon the table next to Jimbo's, pummeling the flaking wood with everything in his old, exhausted body. "I won't forgive ya, lad, do ya hear me? I won't never forgive ya what ya did today, and ya better wake back up so I can tell ya that, ya better open those damn eyes and look at me, and I won' forgive ya, I won' never forgive ya. I hate…" Unbidden, unwanted tears built in his eyes; Silver turned away, squeezing them shut, digging his short, sharp fingernails into his flesh palm. When he opened his eyes and uncurled his fingers, there were tiny crescent-shaped puncture marks in the skin of his hand. "I fucking hate ye for savin' me," he whispered.

Silver found there were no more words left within him; he swiped at his eyes, furious with himself and furious with his cabin boy, furious with this _whole damn world_ for the broken, bloody fairy tale upon the wood before him.

"Mr. Silver, I will inform you straight off that you might want to consider vacating the premises for the duration of this procedure." The captain appeared, without warning, at the bottom of the galley staircase, holding something huge and gleaming in her pale hand. The doctor trailed aimlessly behind her, throwing nervous glances at the boy upon the table before shuddering violently and clapping a hand to his mouth.

"Hard for one such as meself to be squeamish." The sea cook spread his metal fingers for emphasis, pushing the remaining anger back; he could not break down here, could not show the mess he had just been to anyone. "Anyone needs to leave, it'll be the doc." Silver, to tell the truth, wasn't completely sure what the canine was doing there to begin with, but he _had_ come with the kid on the voyage.

The captain arched a thin brow. "Very well. Provided you do not interfere with the procedure, then…" The feline carefully set the shining, sharp objects upon the nearest table – the one Silver had just tried to beat the living shit out of. "…I cannot argue with your presence."

"If I may…interject here?" The doctor raised a careful hand to block his view of the boy upon the table before turning to face the captain. "Shouldn't we consider keeping him closer to the operation rather than farther away?"

The captain glanced at the canine doubtfully. "And why is that, Doctor?"

"Isn't it obvious?" The other replied – he seemed honestly surprised. "Jim's likely to awake at least once during this procedure, and I imagine it'll be painful for him."

"I fail to see where this is going, Doctor, but let us hope Mr. Hawkins does not come to, as it is likely to be nothing short of excruciating."

"My point is," the canine went on hastily; he cast the cabin boy a frightened glance at the captain's words, but the sight made him turn a violent shade of green and he looked quickly away again. "If Jim awakes and experiences any discomfort, and Mr. Silver is there to distract him…well, Jim is already noticeably more comfortable in his presence than that of anyone else."

"Then he may step in and attempt to comfort Mr. Hawkins, if the boy awakes and appears in need of it," the feline responded impatiently. "But honestly, I hardly believe this qualifies as an immediate issue. Step back, Mr. Silver – let us commence."

 _Let us commence._

The words sounded cold to Silver – it sounded formal, and frighteningly so. There was not a thing within the words, or the way in which she spoke them, that gave any indication as to the business she was preparing to attempt. She was preparing to try her hardest, Silver realized, to save someone's life; if she failed, he thought – and the realization came as a jolt, the thought that she could, the fear that she might, the sudden, inescapable conviction that she _would_ – if she failed, he would never get to see Jimbo smile at him again. He'd never get to see those eyes light up, sparkling bright and blue with enthusiasm; he'd never get to see the kid glare at him again, never endure another quick-witted retort, never give the kid a thousand chores or tell him to swab the deck so clean they could eat off it; there'd be no noise in the galley, no boy fooling around on the bowsprit or dangling precariously from the shrouds, no Jimbo to go tearing round the vessel, no Jimbo to deliver two hundred subtle jabs at his expense, no Jimbo to scold or holler at, no Jimbo to argue with or keep out of trouble, no Jimbo to drive him absolutely crazy, no Jimbo to make him pull out his metaphorical hair, no Jimbo to challenge him or cause him a world of trouble, no Jimbo to…to look at constellations with him or sit upon the deck with him in perfect silence, no Jimbo to make him laugh, no Jimbo to whom he could teach everything he knew…

Silver fell against the wall; pressing his cheek to the cool wood, he found his legs a shaky, poor support; he found himself too exhausted, suddenly, to do much more than simply close his eyes and _be_ , in that moment.

He could not bear to even think of losing that boy on the table; to think he might never see his cabin boy, to think he'd have to look upon the broken, still body, a story that never quite started, a splintered, battered fairy tale that never drew breath, an ever after that ended before it had a chance to begin…

A sharp, soft chink of metal meeting skin jerked the cyborg out of his thoughts; he forced his eyes open once more, gaze roving tiredly round the room before landing upon the captain – her body blocked his view of his cabin boy, so he could not see what was occurring upon the galley table, but the doctor squeezed his eyes shut and gasped, "Oh, _my_ …"

"Doctor, if you insist upon remaining here, I in turn insist you have a seat and do not look upon the proceedings if they will upset you," the feline did not so much as turn in the other's direction as she spoke; the canine nodded weakly, stumbling pitifully round the galley for a moment before reaching a nearby bench and collapsing onto it; he pressed his forehead against the edge of the table and drew in several wheezing gasps.

"What's going on?"

Silver could swear his heart stopped the instant he heard the voice; hope burst to beautiful life somewhere within his chest, and it grew so rapidly it hurt. Absolute silence reigned in the galley for several minutes, and the cyborg found he could not bear it; he stepped forward, shoving a bit roughly past the captain, and came to stand at the boy's side. When the lad raised his gaze to the sea cook, when their eyes locked, there was something within the brighter pair, and it was half-formed and indefinable, yet it spoke of exhaustion and pain, and in the face of it, in the face of the sudden vulnerability in the lad before him, and in the face of the way he looked so very like a _child_ suddenly, Silver felt his previous fury flicker and die; he could not, he found, say the words swirling within his mind or forming upon his tongue. When faced with something so like _innocence_ , he found himself utterly powerless.

"Don' move, Jimbo." His voice, he found, left his lips so very _softly_ , and it sounded so very _sweet_ , he almost did not recognize it himself. He placed a hand on the lad's chest, and he did it so very gently, it seemed impossible that it could belong to somebody as rough and cruel as he. "Ye'll make everythin' worse doin' that."

"What's…what's going on?" Jim repeated sleepily; his eyelids flickered, threatened to fall, yet he fought them with what seemed an enormous effort, and kept his gaze locked upon Silver's. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no," the cook was quick to rid him of this notion; no use getting the kid all worked up over absolutely nothing, while he was wounded, no less. "Nothin's wrong, Jimbo. Everythin's fine." And with the strong, steady beat of the child's heart beneath his hand, the cyborg really believed it. "Just lay back down – we'll take care o' things."

"No, what's going _on_?" The kid persisted – seemed he was stubborn as ever, even with a bullet in one arm. "I-is somebody hurt?"

 _How about damn near killed?_

Silver never got a chance to say the words, however; the captain responded before he could. "Everyone is accounted for, Mr. Hawkins," she replied crisply. "It would be best at this point for you to return to your earlier position and relax."

"C-captain?" The boy's voice slipped a notch, growing shaky and soft.

"Indeed." The other did not even look at the boy as she spoke; she dropped her eyes to his arm, returning to her previous endeavor. "Follow my orders, Mr. Hawkins."

In what Silver would later deem a historical moment of perfect obedience, the kid nodded weakly, choking out a small _okay_ before heeding the feline. However, his eyes remained open and after nearly a full minute of staring in evident confusion at the ceiling, he spoke again. "Wait, where…where am I?"

"Mr. Silver," the captain murmured, tearing emerald eyes from the cabin boy's wound for mere moments to lock gazes with the cook, "keep him distracted while I work. Speak to him. Keep him calm. According to the doctor, you're very good at this."

The canine in question gave a horrible shudder at the next table over; the captain and the cook ignored him.

"What's going on?" It seemed the lad was determined to get an answer out of him.

"Nothin' big, Jimbo," Silver reassured the boy softly, running flesh fingers through unruly dark locks. "Ya got a bi' banged up earlier, but we're lookin' after ya. Ye're gonna be fine." He had to be, because Silver could not lose his fairy tale. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the captain sent him a sharp look, and he could not think why; did she think it would be better to try and keep the kid in the dark? Jimbo would simply have kept pestering until he received a reply that suited him, and the cyborg knew it.

"I…where am I?" The lad frowned up at the cook, brows creasing; for a moment, he appeared calm, yet curious – now that he had garnered one answer, he appeared hungry for more. Within seconds, however, his features suddenly shattered, raw panic overtaking his face, twisting his expression. _"What's happened to my arm?"_

"Nothin', Jimbo." It was an effort for Silver to keep his voice even and level; was the kid in pain? "I told ya, we're just patchin' ya up a little. But ye're gonna be fine," he continued, raking thick, browned fingers through the lad's wild hair once more; the touch seemed to calm the boy a bit. "I promise. I'm here." He didn't quite know where those last few words had come from, but they appeared to relax the lad even more than the cyborg's touch, and he was glad he'd said them.

Exhausted blue eyes met his; the boy seemed to almost drink in the sight of him for several long seconds – and finally he spoke, voice soft and pleading. "Dad?" He sounded so _small_ in that moment that Silver's heart wrenched for him; and there was something about him suddenly; there was something in the way he looked at the other and lifted a shaking hand in hopes of making contact, of receiving a touch, as if he hoped to receive some sort of affection; there was something about the way he whispered the word, no, he didn't whisper it, it was like he was trying to breathe it in, trying to grab it and force it down inside him, to fill up his lungs and give him life, as if he thought he needed it as much as he needed the air around him. _Dad._

And looking down into the big, innocent eyes, Silver found he had absolutely nothing to say. All the things he might have said fled suddenly from him; the knee-jerk responses and replies, the meaningless and silly reassurances, they were _gone_. This wasn't to say that he didn't _try_ – he felt his lips forming soundless words; felt, acutely so, the empty spaces upon his tongue where they should be, but…there was absolutely nothing left in him, no way to comfort or correct the boy upon the table and at last, the cook lapsed into a defeated sort of silence.

And then it was over, and Silver was _so relieved_.

The expression seemed to shatter; to collapse, to crumple; to cave suddenly inward upon itself, and it took all the innocence and all the vulnerability with it. There was nothing of the child he had been in those blue eyes; he was strength again. He was independence, and there was nothing in him that needed Silver any longer. "What…what are you doing?" The boy sat up slightly then, face twisting until he was nothing like innocence; until he was merely pale skin and blood and pain. "What are you doing to my arm?" He did not sound quite so tired anymore and when Silver looked, he saw muscles in the small throat tighten and quiver; the sharp jaw clenched, and his thin fingers fisted. He followed the cabin boy's gaze and saw the captain, fingers stained wet and inky crimson, gently tugging a gleaming metal tool from the open wound.

"Jimbo, lay down." Silver surprised himself with the words; after what had just occurred between them, he did not believe he'd ever speak again. He locked his metal fingers around the boy's wrist, rubbing his thumb over the warm surface – he could _feel_ sharp bones just beneath the skin, and they jutted out at odd, senseless angles, as if the boy before him were made of broken glass, shattered shards threatening to slice those who drew near. "Don't be movin' too much."

"What's going on?" Warm, thin fingers curled trustingly up around the spindly metal hand. "Dad?" He was innocence again, and Silver did not think he could stand it.

"J-Jimbo…" But there was nothing, there were no words left in the whole world; somebody had just stepped in and taken them all, every one of them, and they missed not a one. Silver's lips fell closed once more.

"No… _Dad_ …" He was suddenly a child again, and his small hand slipped away from its spot within the iron palm; the boy's fingers curled and flexed aimlessly in midair, as if longing to regain the lost touch. "…wait…I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry, what did I _do_?" He was innocence and he was desperation, he was at once a blaze, a burst of sudden, bright color and he was at once glass, and he held his breath and waited to be broken. "I'll fix it, promise, I can fix it, I can, just _don't leave_ …" He was desperation and he was glass and he waited to be broken, and Silver's heart _tore_. "Please…" He was at once shame, and at once terrible, impossible hope. "… _don't leave_."

The boy fell silent then, and he waited; he sat upright upon the table and looked up at the cyborg and he simply _waited_ ; he waited, the pirate knew, for the story to end the only way it could; for the book to close as it had opened; for the color to fade and the glass to break, as he knew it must, as it had before.

And Silver did not have the words – he did not have anything at all. He was a _pirate_ ; a greedy and murdering and heartless _pirate_ , and pirates did not pen fairy tales. Pirates did not possess the power of prose; they had no need of it. Pirates were not a poetic or storytelling people; pirates were simply not capable of weaving imaginative anecdotes, they were not capable of reciting yarns, they did not know the secret to turning pain into beauty, for they did not know the secret of beauty at all. And Silver, he simply did not have the words; he did not have the talent, the intelligence, he himself was not a beautiful person, so he could not pen beautiful words. He could find himself a blank page, but he did not know how to create a _once upon a time_ ; he did not have the power to give a _happily ever after_ to the blue-eyed, broken fairy tale staring back at him.

He could not pen the boy a perfect ending – but he could _try_ to pen him a better one.

"No one's leavin' ya, Jimbo," he whispered; and he whispered it with conviction, and he whispered it because he believed it, because in this moment, the boy staring back at him was a shredded sort of storybook, and he needed something to believe in. He grabbed up the small hand in his own; the lad's fingers fit perfectly within the rough, solid iron palm.

"Are you sure?" The voice was so quiet, so small, and it possessed the power to break the pair of them. "People leave all the time, they're always leaving…I just…I just wish s-somebody would… _stay_ …" The little fingers cradled in the metal grasp went entirely limp; the boy's eyelids dropped, and he fell back upon the table.

"I'm not leavin'," Silver whispered; the boy couldn't hear him, but it didn't matter. "I ain't leavin', Jimbo, I'm stayin' righ' here." The boy couldn't hear him, couldn't feel the strong fingers wrapped around his own, but it didn't matter. "Ya remember that, alrigh', lad? Ya remember that." The boy couldn't hear him, wouldn't remember these words, but it didn't matter at all. "So let's make a deal here, you and I," he gave the hand a gentle squeeze as he spoke, staring down into the small face. "Let's make a deal – I'll stay. I'll stay forever, I'll always be here, I'll never leave ya, never walk away or take off and I'll be around whenever ya need me, ye'll ne'er have to say goodbye to me. But for this deal o' ours to work, ya gotta be okay. Ya think ye can do tha' for me? Ye think that's fair? It's fair, ain't it, lad, I stay if ya do?" He brushed the boy's hair back from his face as he talked; from the corner of his eye, he noticed Doppler lifting his head from his hands and glancing over at the cook. If he wasn't terribly mistaken, the doctor was watching him with a very odd expression, but he didn't want to look, to take his eyes from the lad's face.

The captain captured the cyborg's attention then; with precise and deliberate movements, she lowered a gleaming needle to the boy's purpled skin, and began to sew up the wound. The hole looked very strange to Silver now that the feline had cleaned the blood away. He turned his gaze back upon the lad, carefully lowering their entwined hands to rest upon the thin, smooth sheet.

"I think it's fair," said Silver quietly, and almost to himself. "I think my deal is fair."

* * *

Silver did not go to sleep at all – he couldn't.

Despite the darkened skies staring back at him, the stars gleaming, serene and peaceful, the heavens utterly untroubled, the cyborg could not even bring himself to consider settling down within a hammock and attempting to achieve anything akin to rest. Even once the captain had completed her task, even once he had brought the sleeping lad down into the crew's quarters – pausing before he left to watch the small chest, rising and falling in a steady and comforting sort of pattern, reassuring the cook that there was indeed still something left within the wounded body – even once they had docked at the spaceport; even once they had cleared their ship at last of the captured pirates, even once the captain had retired to her stateroom with her first mate in tow, Silver had not found anything within himself that so much as hinted at fatigue. He was restless and anxious and strangely expectant, and it seemed to him that everyone aboard shared his feelings; Mr. Onus resumed his position in the crow's nest, despite the late hour, and Scroop and Mr. Hands took to aimlessly wandering the deck, speaking occasionally in low murmurs to one another.

The desire for solitude seized Silver then, and he retreated once more into the crew's quarters; here, he busied himself by cleaning away the fallen bodies and dark splashes of thick red blood caked onto the floor. It didn't seem likely that his crew would find the remnants of the battle a particularly soothing sight whenever they did begin to desire sleep.

The cook executed the task in perfect silence, careful not to wake the sleeping cabin boy; Jim moved little during the night, stirring restlessly upon occasion before falling immediately back into his slumber. In this manner, the night passed almost peacefully for Silver; the quiet of the empty quarters soothed him, and – for the first time since they had spotted the pirate ship – he felt himself beginning to relax. It seemed to him that no time at all should have passed; yet when he brought himself up to the deck, dumping the scant contents of his bucket over the ship's side, disposing of the last of the dirty water, faint purple bands rimmed the sky, a light morning mist ghosting, nearly imperceptibly, over everything aboard. Silver allowed himself to linger at the rail for several moments longer, staring out into space, into the rapidly disappearing stars – there was something in the Eitherium, in the beauty and magnitude of it, that left the observer, whether fifteen or fifty, nothing short of breathless, nothing less than wonderstruck.

The clear, sweet early morning air washed over the cyborg – it seemed, he thought, to be _welcoming_ him, the mist settling over him as if wrapping him in an embrace or offering him a loving kiss; he smiled slightly into the gentle breeze, savoring the feel of the wind on his face. This was where he _belonged_.

"Mr. Silver?"

"Mm?" It was an absent grunt that left his lips and, when it received no response, he tore his gaze reluctantly from the skies, to seek the one who had addressed him. The sight of the doctor, leaning nervously upon the metal rail, surprised him for a moment. Nonetheless, he pasted a cheerful smile upon his browned face, readjusting his tricorn hat as he talked. "What's th' problem, Doc?"

"Oh! Oh, there's no problem," the canine was quick to dissuade him of the notion; he took a deep breath, clasping his fingers around the rail before he spoke, as if attempting to ground or steady himself. "I…I merely wanted a word with you."

"Alright." Silver couldn't deny that he was confused, yet he nodded in consent; dropping his bucket down by his feet to free his hands, the cook reached into his coat and carefully withdrew his pipe. "Bes' be quick, Doc, I reckon it's high time to start makin' breakfast."

"Oh, yes, yes, of course. Good point, very good point…" The doctor looked out into the steady purpling sky; his hands clenched slightly around the rail, betraying his anxiety. "I suppose I would like to speak—I would like to address the…the happenings down in the galley."

Honest confusion settled slowly over the cook. "I don' know what's left to address, Doc – things worked out, didn' they?" Even as he spoke he recalled, with an uncomfortable jolt, the terrible fear that things wouldn't, burning like a bright spark in his stomach.

"Oh, yes, yes, everything worked out wonderfully," the other nodded vigorously. "Jim is extraordinarily lucky, you know, I can still scarcely believe it myself…I mean, he's…he's quite a strong one, I shouldn't…shouldn't have doubted him, I suppose, but things were looking a bit…a bit grim, a bit black, I think they say, for a moment there, really, Jim is so lucky that he didn't…w-well…the captain can work true miracles, let's leave it at that." The canine ended his monologue with a glowing look in the direction of the stateroom.

"Is that what ya came over to talk 'bout?" Silver demanded; his tone came out slightly harsher than he'd intended. How could the other so flippantly discuss the blood—the bullet—the fact that his cabin boy could have…

"Oh, no, no!" The doctor's eyes widened so rapidly that, under different circumstances, the cyborg might have considered it comical. "I…I merely wanted to…to tell you that…that I believe you are…are good for him."

It was very fortunate, Silver would reflect later, that he was not in the act of taking a puff from his pipe; he could very well have choked on the smoke at these words. "Wait, wait, what?"

"You've made a…a difference for him."

The cook had to give the canine credit; though he seemed to harbor a desperate desire to melt into the floor and never be tasked with facing the cyborg again, he actually appeared to be gearing up to continue.

"I…I really didn't notice it until this evening down in the galley, but…but I…I overheard…I mean, obviously, it was by no choice of mine, entirely an accident, you understand, I merely happened to be seated at a nearby table, and you were speaking rather… _powerfully_ …and…w-well…what you said…"

It took the cook a minute to find his voice; once he had, he surprised even himself with his words. "Ya said that."

"Excuse me?"

"Down in the galley, ya said…ya…ne'er mind." The cyborg broke off, shaking his head as if to physically shake off the conversation – yet the words burned determinedly within him. _"Well, Jim is already noticeably more comfortable in his presence than anyone else."_

The pirate captain set about lighting his pipe, mind abuzz with questions. Everything the doctor had said down in the galley, it wasn't _really_ true…it couldn't be, the kid didn't like him that much, they were fond of each other, they were acquaintances, but it wasn't anything more, it didn't go beyond that, it couldn't go beyond that, they couldn't be friends, it just wouldn't work, the kid didn't know him, not really, he didn't know the cyborg was…

"Well…" The doctor cleared his throat a bit awkwardly before continuing. "I suppose I'd just like to…to say thank you."

Putting his lip to the pipe, Silver took a long, slow puff; he waited a moment to exhale, holding the smoke within his lungs. "Don' thank me."

"But…Mr. Silver, you—

"Look," the cook lowered his pipe slightly, glancing at the doctor and raising a thick brow. "Whate'er ya think I did for the lad – it weren' anythin' he couldn' have done for himself, and I didn' go in hopin' to gain anythin' from anyone. So don't…don' thank me. I didn' do a damn thing for anyone."

The canine paused; he appeared uncertain as to how to interpret these words. At last, he said, so quietly the cook nearly missed it, "You're…a good man, Mr. Silver."

The cyborg smiled – a small, twisted quirk of the lip, bitter and joyless. _Oh, if only he knew_ … "I ain't." When he looked to the other again, the doctor had vanished.

* * *

The day passed quietly for Silver.

Once he had stirred himself away from the rail and down to the crew's quarters to check in on the lad – the kid was still sleeping, but he seemed fine, and the cyborg couldn't stay and risk being caught by a member of his crew – he set about preparing breakfast.

He did not trouble himself to produce a complex or time-consuming meal – in the time it took for him to scramble some eggs, crisp some bacon, and toast a few bits of bread, a mere twenty minutes had elapsed, and the sun had nearly risen. He set the plates upon the tables – sparing the one at the far end of the galley a quick glance, the one at the far end was the one Jimbo had lain on, and though they had cleared off the blood-soaked bullet and stained cotton sheet, he had not set any plates up there.

The unmistakable thumping of footfalls on the galley stairs startled the cyborg; he turned his gaze to the doorway instead, and Scroop's hairy, low-slung form appeared in the doorway, yellow eyes glistening with malice; behind him, the rest of the crew lurked – Hands had to stoop slightly to fit into the low-ceilinged quarters, and Mary hopped the last four steps to rest upon the galley floor.

Silver did not waste any time looking at them; once they had all gathered at the tables and begun shoveling forkfuls of eggs or whole pieces of toast, he turned back to face the stove and set about preparing plates for the captain, the doctor, and the first mate, doubtless still awaiting their morning meal.

Behind him, the crew discussed the cabin boy's injury at length, remarking several times how disappointing it was that the young lad had lived.

"Well, ye can't have yer cake and eat it, too, I s'pose," Mary threw in.

"Still, there's no denying he would have _deserved_ it," Oxy countered. "Little loudmouth he is…"

"…such a _brat_ …"

"Just you wait 'til the mutiny, we'll give 'em _all_ what's comin' to 'em…"

Metal fingers curled into an entirely involuntary fist, and Silver excused himself from the galley then.

The cyborg had to admit, the utter and obvious loathing rolling off the crew in thick, strong waves came as a surprise to him – with the exception of Scroop, he supposed; Scroop had made his dislike abundantly clear from that first day aboard but that was _Scroop_ , and he simply hated everybody. Thus, Silver hadn't really given it a lot of thought.

Had the kid…had he _done_ something? Had he said something impertinent or irreverent, done anything churlish or cheeky, to earn their hatred? Silver was tempted to dismiss the thought the instant he had it – pirates, after all, were a touchy sort, short fuses, he supposed, and insults were never forgiven, slights never forgotten – yet he knew his cabin boy. He'd seen the reckless sort of impudence, the foolhardy kind of defiance, the strange, puzzling mixture of significant bravery and startling stupidity – he'd seen it, he thought with a sudden burst of sharp anger, he'd seen that bravery, that _stupidity_ , he'd seen it just the previous day, hadn't he, when the kid fired that pistol, when he held the smoking gun in his shaking fingers, when he turned his back on the wounded pirate and ran, like he thought the alien wouldn't exact revenge, like he thought a mere bullet in the knee would fell the being for good…

The kid – Silver realized – the kid was _stupid_ , the kid had just rushed into battle as bright-eyed as a babe, and he never—never maybe thought he might need to look out for himself, might need to think of himself, there might be a risk he shouldn't take, there were bad things out there, bad people, that he couldn't outrun or outsmart, and of course the lad didn't think like that, didn't ever stop to think, he always just _acted_ , just leapt without really looking, because he was impulsive and inexperienced, he was reckless and fearless and just so, so _stupid_.

And he would wake up – and Silver's anger only escalated as he thought of it – the kid would wake up, he'd rip off the bandage and stare at the stitches and probably have the audacity to _grin_ at the sight and probably push his hair back and talk about the badass _scar_ it'd leave, and he'd never know the hell he'd put Silver through, he'd never know because he was _stupid_.

And he'd jump right back up and plunge right on into everything, just like always, just like before, and that arm of his wouldn't teach him _nothing_ , he'd just argue that he was okay and he'd never stop to think, he'd always just act and leap without looking and he'd always be impulsive, and he'd always be stupid and nothing Silver said would – or _could_ – ever stop him.

The instant, Silver swore to himself, the precise, goddamn instant the kid opened those big, bright eyes of his, he would start in. He would say something, he had to say something, he'd shake the lad, he'd yell, he'd bellow, he'd holler 'til he was hoarse of voice, he'd do anything to make the kid understand, to make him quit acting the hero, quit taking crazy, reckless risks, quit being _stupid_ …

And the kid would, Silver knew, try to push him away or play it off; the lad would try to laugh or smile or turn the whole thing into a joke and _Silver wouldn't fucking let him_.

He had to do _something_ to make the lad understand.

* * *

"Hi."

This kid, Silver realized, had _nerve_.

Hours of fear…hours of worry…hours of bullets and blood, hours of that face staring back at him, still and pale, the right side turning a brilliant shade of purple-blue from his impact with the deck, hours and hours and hours of agonizing anxiety forming horrible, tight knots in his stomach and all the kid had to say to him was _hi_?

"Yer…yer…" Okay, so maybe he wasn't saying anything too grand right now, but he had a defense. He was taken by surprise. "Yer awake?" The cyborg sputtered at last, dropping his spoon down into the pot of bubbling sauce and dashing over to the lad as quick as he could.

And then the kid didn't even respond; just gave him an impressively deadpan look before turning, yanking a wooden cup off the nearest shelf and lowering it down into the barrel, letting it fill to the top before lifting it to his lips. For a moment, the galley was entirely silent, save the sound of the lad drinking.

And Silver, he was collecting his bearings. Gathering his thoughts – choosing how to lead in. How to say what so clearly needed to be said.

The kid served as a momentary distraction; dipping the cup carefully back into the barrel, he filled it once again, lips parting to take in the second serving.

"Don'…don' drink too much." Silver noted his voice came out much gentler than he wanted. "Ya don' want it all comin' back up in a few minutes." Okay, this was bad. This was not how he wanted to lead in. This was _not_ how he'd wanted to begin the conversation, he didn't want to sound nice or polite, he wanted to sound…

The kid spun to look at him, swiping a loose tan sleeve across moist lips before speaking. "You're acting kind of weird, what's up?"

"Nothin'," the denial had left his lips before Silver had even granted himself permission to speak; it was knee-jerk, he supposed, instinct, to cloak his true feelings whenever possible. Those who couldn't bury their emotions never lasted long, in his experience. He grabbed up the abandoned spoon again with grateful fingers – thankful he had found something to focus on, save the kid before him.

"Silver?" The lad cast him a very odd look – those big, blue eyes spoke of nothing but confusion. "What's wrong?"

No, no, there was no point in saying anything, the cyborg told himself, especially not now; the kid, there was no guarantee he'd listen, he'd just go charging off like he always did… "Ya need to get back to bed." He darted a quick glance in the kid's direction, surprised to see a shred of the old defiance in the other's expression. "Get some more rest." A bit of sauce splashed out of the pot and onto the stove – a result of his slightly manic stirring.

He kept his eyes on his task this time, but he would have been deaf to miss the exasperated sigh from the other. _"Fine."_ And there was something in the way the boy said it – maybe it was the frustration, or the annoyance, or the dark, angry undertone – that caught Silver's attention.

And he _snapped_.

"If ye'll pardon my plain speakin'," and he practically snarled the words, releasing the spoon handle again, letting it splash down into the sauce, flinging the boiling liquid down the side of the pot, "have ye gone _stark-ravin', totally-blinkin' daft_?" His voice rose, louder and louder, and he found he couldn't quiet himself.

"What? Why?" And the kid _had no fucking idea_ what he was even talking about.

"Tha' pirate?" Silver practically threw the words at the other, so furious now he felt he could scarcely control himself. "Ya shot tha' pirate?"

"W-well…well, yeah!" And he had the nerve to _defend his stupidity._ "He was about to shoot you!" _And that made it okay?_ "Silver, I thought—

"It doesn' matter what ya thought!" _You didn't think, you just plunged right in like you always do… "_ I was gettin' back on my feet, lad, I was fine!" He did not even have room enough left in him to recognize and correct the falsehood. "Ya didn't need to go burstin' in there—what were ya thinkin'?" He grabbed the kid by the sleeve, forcibly turning the other around. "What were ya _thinkin'_?"

"I…I don't know!" Even he himself didn't seem to have an answer; he raked his fingers roughly through his unkempt locks, obviously frustrated. "Maybe that you were going to _die_? That I'd better help you out?" Yet there was honest confusion – a note of true bewilderment in his voice, in the very way he held himself, that prompted Silver to explain.

"Tha' pirate, he was th' one that shot ya! If ya hadn't stepped in, he wouldn't have—

"If I hadn't stepped in, you'd be dead!" As if that made it any sort of _okay_.

"Ya shouldn't have!" Silver felt what little self-control he still possessed slipping through his fingers. "I was gettin' up! I was _fine_!" He didn't owe this kid a damn thing, no matter what he'd done.

"But…well…" The lad fidgeted, clearly recalling the battle – a hint of doubt crossed his face; and immediately, it lost its place to true anger. "It didn't look like that from where I was standing!"

"Ya don' interfere with pirates!" Silver recalled his own crew, the contempt and animosity in their voices when they spoke of the boy before him. "Ya piss off a pirate, ya got the whole crew after ya! He could've _killed_ ya!"

"But he didn't!"

"Well, that was some dumb luck!" The cyborg roared at his cabin boy.

"Does it matter anymore?" And the kid actually had the nerve to _ask_ …

"Of course it does!" _It matters because you scared me half to death._

"Everyone's okay!" And the kid didn't care, didn't give a shit for the bandage wound around his arm, as if he thought it defined okay.

"But I thought ya weren't!" _I fucking thought you were dead._

"And you almost weren't!" As if _he_ fucking mattered, as if he mattered more than the kid, as if the kid gave a shit about him at all…

"Ya don' understand!" _You should have let me take the fucking bullet, you shouldn't have done anything, you shouldn't have, I don't matter as much as you…_ "I would have been—

" _I can't lose you too!"_

For an instant, Silver was not entirely sure the words had honestly left the lad's lips, or he had just imagined them – a glance at the boy, however, confirmed it for him. The kid stared at him for a second, tears building in blue eyes, anger giving way to sudden, fierce _shame_ – the boy whirled around, shoulders tense, hands clenched around the rim of the water barrel, and he did not move an inch.

And Silver could remember the feel of the small hand in his; the weary blue gaze locking onto his; the weak, shaking voice asking him, begging him not to _leave_ …

"J-Jimbo…" He did not know what he planned to say, but it didn't matter in the least; all that mattered in this moment was that he said _something_ , anything at all, offered the lad even the slightest shred of comfort…

"I have to go." The boy pushed off the barrel – head down, hands fisted, jaw clenched, Silver reckoned all he needed to complete the image was that black jacket, hanging once more round his shoulders. The kid shoved roughly past the cook, scrubbing angrily at his eyes, obviously hoping to discreetly banish all evidence of emotion.

But Silver had no intention of letting the lad escape the words he had just said – he grabbed at the kid, caught his wrist, felt the bones jutting out from beneath the warm skin like glass waiting to be broken, and tugged the other back, forcing him to stand before the cyborg. Yet when they actually _faced_ each other, words abandoned the cook – how did he say it, how did he explain to the lad that he wasn't going to leave, that he wouldn't ever leave, that they'd made a deal and the kid had held up his end of it, that they'd promised each other to stay, and so he would?

"S-Silver…" There was something in the way the lad said it – he seemed to _choke_ it out, really, and it emerged weak and raspy, and something or perhaps everything in it _opened Silver's eyes._

He'd stay; he'd stay forever; he'd never walk away, never leave, never let go or give up or anything, because Jimbo couldn't lose him and he couldn't lose him. He loved him. He fucking loved James Hawkins – he loved him and everything he was in this moment and everything he had ever been, and everything he would ever be, and he couldn't fucking lose him.

"When ya got hurt, there was a minute there when…when…when we didn' know if ya were gonna be okay." _And we made a deal, I made a promise, I said I would stay if you did, too…_

"Okay." The kid nodded uncertainly, seemingly confused.

"And…and it didn' last very long," Silver put a hand under the boy's chin, lifting it slightly, "but…but ya should know that it was one of the wors' moments in my life…because I can't lose ya, either."

 _Because you're the happy ending._


	9. Stay

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: This is so much shorter than last time, and it will forever amuse me because NOTHING WILL EVER ECLIPSE THAT CHAPTER I SWEAR TO GOD xDDDD Anyway, this one took me a bit, mostly 'cause I just kept digging my heels into the dirt and refusing to write it. I knew what I needed to say, I just didn't want to settle down and say it xD Anyway, I'm kind of proud of how this one turned out. I can't tell if I really ought to be, but I'll leave you guys to decide. So please leave your thoughts in the reviews?**

 **Next chapter should be _Control,_ a rather short story with third-person Silver POV serving as the narration. Hopefully, the chapter will serve as a "bridge" between two canon scenes (not that the canon scenes didn't flow well together, because I actually felt that the two bits in question had the smoothest transition of the whole film, but I'm just interested in delving deeper into how Point A got to Point B.) **

**Also, I recently started a YouTube account, bearing the name J.M. Ryder, and I've posted a couple Treasure Planet fan-videos - it'd make my day if you guys checked them out! :)**

 **Don't forget to review if you liked this, and I'd love to hear the reasons why you didn't, provided you can state them kindly. :)**

* * *

I knew this would happen.

Well, looking back, I guess I'd always known, really; I'd always known it was coming, somewhere inside me – but it was the kind of thing that lurked unobtrusively on the edges of my subconscious, occasionally darting in, only to remind me that the world I'd entered aboard the _Legacy_ wasn't really as perfect as it seemed.

The thought had occurred slowly at first, trickling through in fragmented bits and pieces, a microscopic shard here and there, graduating steadily from fleeting half-thoughts and midnight fears, to dark premonitions to a sudden, firm-founded knowledge, and it was one so concrete and so irreversible that I never even thought of trying to fight it. I'd shoved it away, I'd pushed it out of my head, sent it to the back of my mind, forcing it to crouch in the darkest corners of my mind, but the truth was that I'd known. I couldn't ignore it, I couldn't pretend any different – the truth was the truth, and I'd known.

But it didn't help, it didn't matter, knowing didn't make it, any of it – the sight of Silver kneeling down on the platform, thick browned fingers twisting and curling in a hasty attempt to undo the knots we'd created just yesterday, broad back facing me; it didn't make the sound of his voice, cheerful and booming as it had always been turning low and panicked and breathless, issuing from his mouth in a hissing undertone to the squeaking pink creature fluttering anxiously at his side – knowing didn't make any of this hurt any less.

"You never quit, do you?" The sound of my own voice, echoing loudly through the dark hangar, startled me; the words scraped my throat on their way out, and when they hung in the stale, bad-smelling air between us, they didn't sound the way I'd wanted them to, cool and quick. I just sounded exhausted and angry and hurt.

I startled Silver, too – though his back was to me, I could clearly see his shoulders tensing slightly through the thick, dark coat and when he spun to face me, my name on his lips and a smile on his face, I could tell that every inch of his expression was practiced. "I was just checkin' to make sure our last longboat was…safe…and…secure…" As he spoke, he dropped to his knees and grabbed up the rope again, winding it clumsily around the peg a few times, to back up his claim.

And it would be so easy, I thought with a sudden pang; it would be so easy to go along with his story, to believe he was telling the truth, to smile and nod at him and pretend, if only for an hour, if only for a minute, if only for a second while I stared up at him, that he could stay beside me.

But real life doesn't take no for an answer. You live it, and you live it when it's hard and you live it when it's easy, and you keep going and you keep living, whether you want to or not.

So I took a breath and I didn't fight it, I just lived it.

"Well…" I went down onto my knees beside him and put a hand to my chin like I was seriously inspecting the knot staring back at me – the sloppy, loose sort you could undo with a touch of a finger. The kind a pirate should know better than to produce. It took me only seconds to retie it, glancing to him as I pulled it tight. "That should hold it." I even managed to smile at him.

"Taught ya too well." He sounded sort of rueful, and sort of proud. He stood up again, so I did too, leaving the rope where it lay on the floor, knotted tightly around the peg. And it would be so easy to pretend that this was just another one of his lessons, that he really was teaching me about knots and in a minute, we'd go down into the galley and start preparing the next meal, and then we'd scrub the dishes and he'd walk with me down to the crew's quarters and when I woke up the next morning, he'd be there, it'd be so easy to pretend…but real life didn't take no for an answer, and I knew that. But when he looked to me, I didn't speak anyway, staring silently back at him.

 _Say it. C'mon, say it. Say it, so I don't have to._

"Jimbo." He put a hand up to his mouth and he spoke behind it, leaning into me like the words were meant for me, only me; I'd seen him do that a million times on this ship, and each time, it had been for me. He'd only ever done it with me. And no matter what he said then, the words always seemed like some sort of magic to me, a special sort of secret that he trusted me to keep for him. There were no secrets here, I realized; there was nothing left for him to say like this, under his breath and behind his hand, there were no more secrets I needed to keep for him. There were no secrets left that I didn't already know.

"If ye don't mind, we'd just as soon avoid prison. Little Morphy here, he's a…a free spirit! Bein' in a cage—it'd break his heart." Silver grabbed the pink creature from the air and clamped his metal fingers around him in a hasty imitation of a jail cell. Trapping him.

I had to smile then. I had to smile to keep from crying, because I knew where this was going and I knew how things had to end and there was nothing left he needed to say under his breath or behind his hand, and there never would be again.

It took everything I had in me to press down on the lever; to stand there and watch the hatch sliding open, to lean down and begin untying my own knot, to smile at him when he smiled at me, and it took everything I had to bite my lip, and it took everything I had to keep from begging him to stay.

"What say ya ship out with us, lad?" The words were so unexpected that for a minute, I was sure I hadn't heard right – but then Morph flew from Silver's open palm and transformed himself into a pirate hat, settling decisively on my head. Silver slipped an arm around my shoulders – he'd done it a million times on this ship and each time, it had been for me, only me, and to think of it now made me ache. "You and me! Hawkins and Silver!" He was getting excited now, and I knew it; I knew it by the way he pushed suddenly away from me, I knew it by the flush in his cheeks and I knew it by the smile taking shape on his lips. "Full of ourselves and no ties to anyone!" His words painted a picture in my mind, and it was almost too beautiful to turn away from.

I looked up at him then, and I saw in all of his excitement and all his painted pictures just how easy it would be; I could see it all laid out before me in his eyes, could see him settling beside me on the bench, could hear our laughter as the skiff fell from the hangar, could almost feel the cool breeze blowing in onto our faces and billowing out our clothes, and he'd have his arm around me and I'd have a smile on my face and I would let him take me away and I would look out at the stars, maybe look back at the spaceport just once, just to see it one more time, to think of home, to think of Mom, remember them…

Mom.

The beautiful images shattered before my eyes.

Mom would be there at the spaceport; Mom would be waiting for me when I came home again, I had someone waiting for me. And she'd been waiting for me to come back long enough.

I was ready to go home again.

So I smiled, to keep myself from crying, and I smiled to soften the words because I knew they'd hurt, they'd sting and scrape and burn on their way out, but I had to say them. I took the hat off my head; I could tell Silver recognized the wordless rejection, and I spoke then, because I wanted at least one of us to walk away from this unhurt. "You know, when I got on this boat, I would've taken you up on that offer in a second." I stepped forward, a little closer to the open hatchway, and stared out at the skies. I wouldn't see them. Not today. I knew that I could have, and I could be as endless and everlasting as Silver had always seemed to me. But there was something else waiting for me. Something other than Mom. And I was more than ready to meet it.

"But, uh…I met this old cyborg…" I spoke softly, because that was all I knew how to be right now. "And he taught me…" My eyes stung, vision blurring; scarlet and silver merged before my eyes, but I smiled because I didn't want to cry here. "…that I could chart my own course…" I still remembered his hands on my shoulders and his voice in my ears, the tears pricking at my eyes and soaking into my skin, falling into the thin white fabric of his shirt; when I closed my eyes, I could still feel his arms around me, all the warmth and strength and reassurance in them, and I knew suddenly that it would be the hardest thing in the world to walk away from. But there was something else waiting for me, and I'd been waiting for it or maybe it had been waiting for me, for long enough now. "…and that's what I'm gonna do." My throat was tight with unshed tears.

"And what do you see?" Silver's voice was low and prodding, yet warm. "Off that bow of yours?"

I smiled then, not to keep from crying, but because I knew the answer to his question, and because I had something to smile about. "A future."

A future was waiting for me back home, and it'd been waiting for me long enough.

When Silver laughed, it sounded shakier than it should have. "Look at ya," he whispered, and he sounded happy and sad and proud all at the same time. "Glowin' like a…a solar flare. Yer somethin' special, Jim." His voice dropped. He didn't speak under his breath or behind his hand, but I was starting to think maybe I liked it better that way. "Ya're gonna rattle the _stars_ , ya are."

I don't know which of us stepped forward first, but I guess it didn't really matter all that much; either way, I ended up in his arms. And I told myself to remember it, every piece of it – his metal fingers gently squeezing my shoulder and his flesh hand tangling in my hair and his warm breath on the side of my face and his chest, rising and falling beneath my ear. I buried my face in his coat and breathed in deep, and I told myself to remember every last bit of it, because it would be the last time I'd ever feel it. The thought was almost enough to make me change my mind.

When he pushed away from me, I let him; I let him turn away, I let him mumble and mutter about grease in the gears of his cyborg eye, and I stood there and I didn't say anything, because it would hurt – it would hurt so much, it might hurt almost more than I could stand to let him go. But I knew it would hurt that much worse if I tried to hold onto him.

I could feel the tears gathering in my eyes again, but I swiped them away and smiled – not because I didn't want to cry, but because I wanted to smile. I wanted to smile, and I wanted Silver to remember me like this, just like this; I wanted him to remember me with a smile on my face because that was exactly how I wanted to remember him.

Out of the three of us, all wiping surreptitiously at our eyes and forcing smiles onto our faces, Morph was the only one who actually cried – took one look at me and started bawling, sobbing so hard he reduced himself to a tiny puddle of clear blue water. I let him fall into my cupped hands, talking in the most consoling way I could. "Hey, no, Morph, it's okay. I'll see you around."

"See you around," he gurgled unhappily, fluttering back over to Silver.

The cyborg stared at him a minute – a trembling pink blob resting sadly on his index finger. Then Silver drew himself up, in the exact same way he did whenever he was about to give me a new chore. "Morphy." His voice came out a bark. "I got a job for ya."

Morph nodded gloomily.

"I need ya," and Silver's voice was softer now, "to keep an eye on this 'ere pup."

It took a minute for me to get what he was saying; the second I did, I tried to protest, opening my mouth and shaking my head, but Morph chirped cheerfully, rushing to my side and nuzzling my cheek. I wanted to bat him away; to reject him; to tell him he belonged to Silver, and that was the way it should be and he should want to stay with Silver…but he was staying. With me. My throat tightened again, eyes beginning to burn. The little morph next to me might not have looked like much, but he…he was a piece of Silver, and he was staying with me. Silver was leaving a piece of himself with me, and it was the kind of piece I couldn't just give back.

"Oh," Silver added, once he had scrambled into the skiff, "and one more thing!" He added the words like an afterthought, but when he took the coins from his coat and tossed them to me, the gesture looked so practiced that I had to wonder if he'd planned it that way all along. "For yer dear mother," he said by way of explanation. "To rebuild that inn of hers."

I had to smile – and I smiled to keep from crying and I smiled because I had something to smile about and I smiled because I wanted to smile but mostly, I smiled because I wanted him to remember me smiling and I wanted to remember him smiling. "Stay out of trouble," I called down to him – and I knew it was impossible, I knew it couldn't happen and it wouldn't do any good to pretend and I knew real life didn't take no for an answer, but I almost…I almost fell silent after the first word. "You old scalawag."

"Jimbo, lad," he laughed, years melting off his face as if they'd never been, "when have I ever done otherwise?" He leaned out over the rail of the boat and waved, he waved to me until the clouds and stars swallowed him up, welcoming him. Welcoming him back. He was coming home to them.

And it was about time I did the same.

After all, my future was waiting for me there.


	10. Bonus: Tough

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: QUICK NOTE HERE: Before we go any farther, I'd probably better clue you guys in so there's no confusion later on - this chapter serves as a brief continuation to Family Matters, and before you can even look at me that way, I just want it on the record that I had no plans for this. No, seriously, I didn't. I had every intention of writing _Control_ at some point next week, but this just sort of happened. And I liked the idea for it better than _Control_ , because tbh, that one's probably going to be a heavier piece, and I wasn't really in the mood for sad!Jim, just frustrated, 'Silver-I-appreciate-your-concern-but-you're-creating-your-own-level-of-ridiculous' Jim. You get me?**

 **Either way, _Control_ might appear here within the next few chapters - but like I said, it's kind of a heavy piece, and sort of intimidating as well; if I don't do it VERY carefully, I might end up with wangst. So who knows? It might never happen at all. So next chapter could be that, but it could also be _Cruel Kindness_ whichhhh kind of destroys the father/son relationship Jim and Silver have going so maybe not xDDD oh but I also have a crackish one that is currently on my computer with the title 'Damn it Jimbo!' so it might be that too. So we _have_ options, I just need to sort through them all and find out which ones are actually finished and whatnot, and find out if a couple even make sense on paper. Thanks for listening and thank you guys so much for all these reviews! I hardly expected any response at all when I posted this and you guys have given me an amazing one! Oh, and thank you SO MUCH for actually going to YouTube and checking out my account! I was so happy to see all the likes and subscribers I got! **

* * *

"I think I'm ready to go back to work," I announced, plopping down onto a nearby galley bench as I spoke and propping my elbows on the flaking wooden tabletop, cupping my chin in my hands.

Silver sucked in his cheeks. "Lad, ye been sayin' that ev'ry mornin' for the pas' four days and I still haven' budged."

"Seriously?" I threw him a glare, pushing myself off the bench to my feet; I shouldn't have taken the seat in the first place, not when I planned to use every inch of my five-foot-four frame to my advantage. "My arm feels fine, Silver. It's felt fine for days now. I was able to move it yesterday, and—

"—and the cap'n told ye to take it easy 'til ye recover."

"I haven't done anything for the past five days! If that's not taking it easy—

"Ye know what I mean." He was firm and inflexible; I didn't really see any viable way the tides could turn in my favor at the moment, but I was determined to at least give it a shot. "Nobody's expectin' ye to play the invalid, Jimbo, but I won't be settin' ye to work, not today. I don' want to risk damagin' that arm of yers 'til I'm sure it's all healed up."

"Silver, it's _fine_. It barely even hurts anymore, and I can move it just fine, and it doesn't so much as twinge when—

Without any kind of warning at all, the cook closed the distance between us in three long strides and jabbed his flesh index finger into the tender skin of my right arm; the wave of agony the action triggered was so intense that I forgot how to breathe, black spots threatening on the very edges of my vision. I sank into a half-crouch, gripping at the edge of the table with the fingers on my left hand, a gasp ripping its way out of my throat.

Silver cocked an eyebrow. "What were ye sayin' then, lad?"

I was quiet for a minute, fighting just to breathe. When I finally lifted my gaze to Silver's, I could see triumph in his dark eyes.

"Do ye see what I'm sayin', lad?" A gentle note crept into his voice then, and I could tell he hadn't done it to be cruel. "Do ye see the point I'm provin'?"

"You didn't have to do it like that," I grumbled, rubbing ruefully at my upper arm; the area still protested, throbbing violently from the aftermath of the rough touch. I pushed up my sleeve to study the healing wound below it. "Damn, Silver, that really _hurt_."

"Pain's th' only way to get some things into yer head, lad," he replied indifferently.

I let the thin fabric drop back down, shielding the puckered, reddened skin from view.

"Ye know, lad," he continued, tone light and brisk – conversational. "I don't think I've ever heard ye say so much as a word o' complaint when ye get hurt."

I couldn't tell if the words were posed as a commendation or criticism; either way, I ran my fingers hesitantly over the tender skin again and murmured, "Talking about it doesn't help. It's gonna hurt either way."

"Yer right," Silver replied; he spoke so strongly that I didn't try to interrupt again. "'Fact, that's one o' the reasons why I like ya, lad. Yer no whiner." I could have interpreted the words as praise if not for the dark note beneath them. "And bein' tough, that's not a bad thing. I'd even say it's the opposite. But…ye gotta remember, lad…no one— _no one_ ," he repeated the two words for emphasis, narrowing his eyes slightly when he looked to me, "no one can be all tough, all the time. And there ain't nothin' wrong with bein'…not…so…tough when ye've…when ye've gotten hurt. When ye can't…be that tough…on yer own, and ye need some help, there ain't nothin' wrong with admittin' that, and asking for it. Don't mean yer less capable than anyone else aboard, and it don't mean anyone's gonna think of ye like that. Just…just 'member that, lad."

I looked back down at my arm – my throbbing, aching, swollen, stiff arm. In spite of everything I tried to tell Silver, the pain hadn't really gone away, and he'd only inflamed the area further, beginning a new round of burning agony licking at the skin like leaping flames. And maybe it was just the pain that got to me then, or maybe I was tired of arguing; or maybe I was sick of denying it. Whatever it was, I gave up. "Okay." I sank back down onto the bench, curling flyaway strands of hair around my fingers and yanking the stray wisps tight. "Okay. I'll take it easy today."

"Good lad," Silver responded approvingly.

I glanced back up at him; he'd already wandered back over to the stove, pushing up his sleeves and resuming his work. "You know I'm gonna be in here tomorrow."

"I know it, lad."

"And you know I'm gonna say all this stuff again then."

"I know it."

"You'll probably have to do this all over again to shut me up."

"I know."

"It might get to the point where you're pretty much pulling out your hair."

Silver glanced at me and, unexpectedly, he chuckled, reaching out and running his fingers lightly through my hair. "Oh, I look forward to it, lad."


	11. Damn it, Jimbo!

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: PLEASE READ BELOW TO UNDERSTAND THE FOLLOWING CONTENT:**

 **So, I mentioned last chapter that there was a document in my folder bearing the ambiguous yet intriguing title of Damn it, Jimbo! This, of course, is that document - but when I read it over, I realized there was absolutely NO context. Jim is suddenly nineteen, and Silver is inexplicably washing dishes with him in the rebuilt Benbow's kitchen - and there's no mention whatsoever of policemen, or the captain, or any consequences at all for Silver's previous actions. Utter confusion led me to conclude that I must have decided to rewrite the ending of Treasure Planet at some point to allow Jim and Silver to remain together long after the credits roll, and for a minute, I was tempted to add some small mention in the beginning of Silver perhaps receiving a fairly lenient sentence for his crimes - then I decided it worked even better as a humorous, lighthearted piece if I didn't waste any time on backstory. So there is no context. Just pretend Silver got off with something light, maybe a six-month sentence, and forget my failures.**

 **By the way, I may have called this a crack chapter in the AN on _Tough_ , but when I thought about it, I couldn't help but think this was _exactly_ the sort of thing Silver would do xD but I shouldn't have even written this because Lord knows I have my HTTYD and RotG fics ( _Those Who Stay_ and _Break of Dawn_ leap immediately to mind) that have suffered several months of neglect, and seriously deserve an update. **

**I dunno what the next chapter will be, so I'm not going to promise any specific thing; I guess we'll just have to see. Don't forget to review if you enjoyed, and feel free to (politely) explain why you - or others - didn't.**

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"Oh, for God's sake, Silver," Jim Hawkins huffed as he slammed the chipped, waterlogged bowl in his hand down onto the counter with a loud and decisive clink. "Why can't you just leave me _alone_?"

"Oh, c'mon! If _I_ don't say somethin', there ain't nobody else who will! And ya know what'll happen then?" With all the melodrama ordinarily associated with a stage, the cyborg in question flung his soapy towel down into the faucet and reached to clutch at his chest, expression twisting into one of unimaginable suffering. "I will _perish_! I will die! I will surrender," he declared, in a voice of exaggerated and theatrical sorrow, "to old age! And they will lay me in the ground! I will be dead, I will be in the ground, and how will you feel _then_?"

"I'd feel lucky if that old age felt the urge to take you soon," Jim muttered.

Silver froze a moment.

"That," he said at last, in a tone of great injury, "was not the response I was expectin'."

"Yeah? Well, it's the response you deserved," the kid replied pitilessly—well, Silver supposed he couldn't technically be called a kid anymore, considering he'd turned nineteen last September, but to call him a man seemed simply unthinkable; no matter how tall the boy before him grew, no matter how many years he spent at the Academy, Silver would always recall first the scowling, smart-mouthed kid from that voyage four years ago.

Either way, his retort was simply unanswerable – and so the cook switched tactics. "Lad—be—be reasonable—

"Okay, well, reason is telling me that this has nothing to do with you!" Jim said impatiently, grabbing the discarded bowl off the counter and running his tattered white dishcloth over the slightly wet ceramic.

"This? This has _everything_ to do with me!" The ex-pirate countered, gesticulating wildly about himself as if the _everything_ he spoke of was the Benbow's gleaming kitchen in which they stood – which it was not.

"How do you figure?!"

"Well, now, I dunno," Silver responded, words laced with a generous amount of sarcasm, "maybe 'cause I been waitin' four years? 'Cause I didn' say a word, even when I had plenty o' opportunities? 'Cause ye've spent a fair bit o' time up at that Academy of yours, rompin' 'round and havin' adventures and it's 'bout time you started settlin'? Maybe 'cause somethin's gotta happen and it hasn' yet and I ain't gettin' any _younger_?"

"Believe me, I've noticed," Jim began cheekily, but Silver sent him the sort of look that suggested violence might follow should he choose to keep speaking – and it proved wonderfully efficient, as the kid fell silent as if struck dumb.

"It's just that I been waitin'," the cyborg continued, "a good long while to see anythin' come o' this, Jimbo. I been waitin' a long time for ya to find a girl ya really feel serious about."

"But I don't feel serious – not about _any_ of those Academy girls! And I don't want to! I'm happy just the way I am." The boy held the half-dried glass in his hand aloft, as if offering a toast. "Bachelor for life."

"Ye can' do that!" Silver argued, aghast.

"Well, if the right one comes along…" Jim shrugged, shoving the glass into a nearby cupboard.

"Yer only nineteen! Ye can't swear off _marriage_!"

"Silver, I'm not swearing it off," the kid now looked, if anything, a little amused, by the cyborg's obvious panic. "But let's be real – I haven't found anyone, and I'm not _interested_ in finding anyone. I'm only nineteen, like you said, I have plenty of time for all that stuff later—

"Ye gotta find her!" Silver wailed. "Ye gotta find her, and I gotta be here when ya do!"

"Um, can you…back up and tell me when I joined this episode of Matchmaker?"

"Damn it, Jimbo!" The ex-pirate boomed, slamming a fist down on the kitchen counter – how could this kid be so oblivious? "I want _grandkids_!"


	12. Bonus: Suspicious

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: Just something that popped into my head while I was supposed to be doing actual stuff. I do have a life outside of FF. Just so you know. Anyway, this is yet _another_ continuation to _Family Matters_ , which I suppose I should just forget about, but I can't help it, I just kind of sort of want to live in that idea for a little while. Jim getting shot and Silver going papa wolf and then Jim being stubborn and Silver low-key tearing his hair out and simultaneously hating and loving his cabin boy. I need that. All of it. (Also I may or may not have been playing Treasure Planet in the background while I worked and I may have seen the word 'bullet' on the web page I had open, and I may have gone from there.) **

**Anyway, in a quick response to two reviews I received on the last chapter - one guest requested a chapter where Jim begins pulling pranks on Silver to get back at him for all the work he piles on, but I'm almost positive that a fic like that already exists in the archive. I mean, maybe I'm wrong, but...? And I just don't particularly want to upset the other author or face accusations of plagiarism, so perhaps it's better if I don't?**

 **And in response to the second, who said something along the lines of, "I need the black hole scene!" Is that a request for a novelization of the supernova scene in canon? And as you two are guests, I can't PM you to discuss this further, so I'd love it if you could respond in reviews! Thanks for your time guys, and thanks for any and all reviews!**

* * *

"Hey, Silver?" Jim hefted himself, one-handed and entirely uninvited, up onto the counter beside the sink, glancing down with brief mild interest at the stack of dishes within awaiting a scrub. "Did you ever see what happened to the bullet?"

Silver tore his gaze from the dirty plate in his hand, a frown creasing his features. "The…the what?"

"You know," the kid said, although Silver did not. "The bullet. That got me. The one in my arm." At these words he glanced, a little too proudly for the cook's liking, down at the tiny line of stitches, gleaming and flashing faintly against the tanned skin. "You said the captain got it out, but it isn't here."

By this time, Silver had forgotten entirely about the plate; he just stared at the boy on the counter, picking absently at a deep groove in the aged wood. Was this kid _serious_? "I…Jimbo, I'd imagine th' cap'n disposed o' it."

"Oh." The kid looked vaguely insulted at this, digging his heels into the underside of the counter.

"Well, we couldn' exactly keep it," the pirate captain reasoned. "Covered in blood, it was. Blood, and just about everythin' else ye can imagine, leas' by the time we got it out. Wasn't no reason to keep it, and even if there had been, wasn' no way we could've—wait. Wait." He paused, narrowing his eyes slightly and fixing his cabin boy with a look – the piercing, somewhat suspicious sort of look that made the lad squirm slightly under its force. "Why did ye want it?"

"No reason," the kid said, much too quickly; and, with this hasty and unsatisfactory response, he hopped off the counter and darted from the galley before Silver could continue this line of questioning.

The cyborg closed his eyes, listening for a moment to the receding footsteps and the steady dripping of the suds, falling off the half-washed plate and onto the floor. "I don't wanna know…I don't wanna know…I _don't_ wanna know…"


	13. Surface

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: PLEASE READ THIS GUYS**

 **Okay, I won't keep you long, but I'm serious, this is _important_. I'm really sorry to tell you this, but I won't be available on this site for probably the whole of October - nothing bad's happening, don't worry, I'm just putting out a book at the beginning of next month, and while it's definitely been an enjoyable project, it's also going to eat into my time, and then I'm going to be busy because Halloween and then with November is Nano Wrimo, so just...yeah. Next two months might be pretty ugly. But but but! I will try my absolute hardest to keep at least some of my fics updated, and this is one of them, soooo. But I make no promises. **

**Anyway, concerning this chapter...this was done off the prompt 'resurface'. The first two sentences came into my head exactly as they are, and I just sort of built from there. Context and I are not on speaking terms.**

* * *

Jim resurfaces.

Silver does not.

Jim fights; every second he fights, every second he's struggling, wrestling and grappling with the rough waves, crashing mercilessly round on him every side, filling him up and forcing him down, but he fights them, every second he fights until he can feel the cool air stinging his face and see the sunlight glistening on the sapphire, wind-stirred waves, every second Jim fights.

Silver does not.

Jim calls for him; dives back down beneath the waves for him; Jim is scared for him, Jim yells his name until his throat is raw and hoarse.

Silver doesn't hear.

Jim begins to panic; he begins to shout, treading water all the while, stomach twisting into knots, breaths hitching in fear because _Silver, c'mon, come back up, stop playing around, this isn't funny anymore!_ He calls, and he waits for Silver to come back up.

Silver does not.

Jim is scared; Jim is cold and scared and painfully alone, and so he begins to cry for Silver.

Silver doesn't hear.

Jim waits. Jim treads water. Jim thinks he will wait here forever.

Jim doesn't.

Jim sees a boat – he doesn't know when he sees it, and at first he thinks he is dreaming, but then the captain spots him and brings the vessel down to hover above the foaming waters, and when they bring him aboard, everything feels real. The captain thanks every planet in the solar system they found him; Jim doesn't hear. They try to bring him below deck; he resists. He fights them, as fiercely as he fought the waves now swirling beneath them. He begs them to wait; he tells them, he promises _Silver will come back_.

Silver does not.

They say they need to take him home; Jim pleads with them to stay, and he stumbles over his words and he can barely see straight but _please, please don't leave, please don't leave him, he wouldn't leave me, I know he wouldn't leave me, please don't make me leave him…_

They tell him they will search, but their promise is half-hearted and Jim knows better than to believe them. Jim thinks he should jump overboard then, plunge back into the icy waves, and wait among them for Silver to resurface. But just as he is gathering all his strength, his legs fail him and he sinks down to the deck, shaking all over. Jim's eyes sting, and he can't tell if it's only saltwater.

They speak to him as they would speak to a child, then, all sweet nothings and pretty lies and empty comforts – _c'mon, now, it's alright, it's alright, you'll see, everything's alright, we'll bring you right home, it's alright…_

They bring him down below deck; they tell him keep warm, and bury him under stifling blankets until he knows he'll suffocate. He shoves the blankets off, but they just put them back on. Jim begins to cry in earnest then, sobbing into his own hands. He leaves the blankets on.

Jim is on the boat for an immeasurable number of days. He cries for Silver. Morning, noon and night, he is thinking of Silver, only Silver, and he finds he cannot sleep. He refuses the portions they place in front of him; it is impossible to feel hungry. He left Silver. He left Silver. He cannot feel hungry.

He lies in his hammock at night, but he doesn't sleep; he lies awake and stares at the ceiling, counting the wooden planks above him, counts and stares until his vision blurs and his eyes fall closed, and then he dreams of a pirate with a booming laugh and metal limbs who holds him close and doesn't ever let him go.

They tell Jim they are bringing him back home, only it doesn't feel like home when he arrives. It is a tiny and crowded planet and he remembers it. He remembers hating it. He remembers staring out at the rain and hating it. He wants to leave the instant he gets there. The air is heavy with the scent of thunder, and when he breathes in, it fills up his lungs until he feels certain he will die.

His mother is waiting there for him; his mother steps forward with eyes as blue as his own, and she wraps him in her arms and she cries into his shoulder because _oh, God, I thought I'd lost you…_

Before they can leave, Jim asks them about Silver; they tell him they will search. He doesn't think they will.

Jim can't sleep, Jim doesn't sleep, Jim _won't_ sleep. Because if he sleeps he knows he'll dream of Silver and when he awakens, there will be no pirate with a booming laugh and metal limbs who will hold him close, so he sits up every night.

His mother stands behind him in the doorway, and there is pain in her eyes.

Jim goes down to the beach; every night now, he walks along the shore, boots digging deep into the wet brown grains, leaving his print upon the sand. He steps out into the water, and he lets it in, every bit of it; he lets himself feel the push and pull of the current, lets the waves lap at him until he's soaked to the skin, until his clothes grow heavy and wet and stick to his body; he finds broken shells, half-buried in the sand, and he drags them up and holds them in his palm, and their sharp edges dig into his hands and draw his blood but he holds on anyway because he wants to feel, even if it hurts. When he finally lets them go, he puts his hand in the water to make it hurt even more; and he's fascinated by the blood swirling within the water, bright red merging with crystal blue.

He stays upon the shore until dawn, and he stares out over the water with bleeding hands and aching heart; and he is filled with the idiotic and impossible and agonizing hope that maybe maybe _maybe_ Silver will resurface.

Silver doesn't.


	14. Missing Pieces

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: Hey, guys! can you believe it's already November 1? time certainly flies. this year has definitely been one of those blink-and-you-miss-it types. anyway, so I just realized I hadn't updated this in like _forever_ , so I decided I should. to the guest who reviewed asking for the supernova scene, I'll def write that btw! things have just been so hectic ever since September ;-; thanks for the reviews! ((next chapter? who said anything about next chapter? I DON'T HAVE A NEXT CHAPTER DoN'T RUsH ME**

* * *

There was something missing.

There was _always_ something missing; no matter what he did, no matter where he went, no matter how many galaxies and nebulas and planets, no matter how many stars and suns and moons…Jim Hawkins was beginning to think he could sail to the end of the _world_ if he wished, and to his last, it'd be there – that hole, that cavity, that deep, yawning chasm somewhere inside him, that never-ending emptiness, that vast and terrifying _nothing_. It was always there, _always;_ and it was something restless and dark and hungry, it was always hungry, always starving for something more than he felt he could give, starving and aching and dreaming of _something more than this_. It was always there, something bigger and darker than he was, rising up around him until he feared it might one day devour him whole; and it didn't matter what he did, it would never be enough, nothing would ever be enough, he'd always want something _more_.

He told himself _be grateful_ ; he told himself _snap out of it_ ; he told himself _stop moping_ ; he told himself _smile_ ; he told himself _just be happy_ – he could do that, couldn't he? He had a good life. He had a nice life. And on quiet nights, he could pull it out and look it over, and there was so much in it – so much happiness and laughter and fun, so much happiness and love and friendship, so many dreams and memories, so much that he could gather up to him and hold close, so much to treasure, so much to rest under his head or cover him like a blanket, to warm him deep within on lonely, wintry nights, so much to warm him down to his very bones…only…it _didn't_ , nothing did. Nothing could warm him, nothing could melt the ice taking root, nothing could chase the chill away, the frigid and stinging loneliness of this, of searching and searching, of wanting things he could not define, of wandering and dreaming and seeking and _never quite finding_ …

* * *

He was dreaming.

Yes, he was dreaming, that was it, that had to be it, that was all this was, a dream, just a dream, it wasn't real, in a few minutes he'd roll over and open his eyes and he'd be back on his ship, he'd be back in his hammock, half-buried in the rough, bad-smelling canvas, and Morph would be swirling round his head or tugging at his hair or blowing in his ear or hiding his left boot and he'd laugh and chase the little creature round the room, he'd wake up and he wouldn't remember this, and everything could go back to the way it was, his world could keep moving, he could forget this…only _he wasn't waking up_. A hallucination, then? An illusion, maybe, from the fatigue plaguing him, residing decidedly within his weary bones until every task seemed more arduous than he could stand. A mirage, a trick of the light, a dream, a hallucination, not real, it couldn't be real, this couldn't be happening, this couldn't be real, how could this be real, how could this be happening, how could that be John Silver standing staring at him? How could…this wasn't…this had to be…this was a dream, that was all…it had to be…this couldn't be real…

" _Jimbo?"_ The word was but a soft, anxious breath.

And damn if it didn't sound real, damn if it didn't bring tears pricking at his eyes, damn if his vision didn't blur, damn if it didn't suddenly _feel real_.

"S-Silver…" _Damn it._ Damn it, damn it all, every piece of it, damn the rules and damn the regulations, damn the Academy jacket draped around his shoulders and the five years they had spent apart, damn it all to hell, this was _real_. Suddenly he found he couldn't stop himself; suddenly he found he had raced forward, closed the gap between them, flung his arms around the other's waist; suddenly he found himself, forehead pressed against the broad chest, blissful smile taking shape on his own lips. Suddenly he found himself and even if it was just for now – even if he found Silver's heart hardened by time or distance, even if the cyborg pushed him away before he was ready to let go, even if they had to say goodbye again, even if it was just for this one day, this one hour, this one minute, this one, single _instant_ , he found there was nothing missing in him at all.


	15. Great Outdoors

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: so this is another one set in the universe of _Damn it Jimbo_ , where nothing makes sense and Silver never paid for his crimes and basically what is logic. we're gonna pretend from now on he received a pardon from someone higher up, but as to how or why I won't get into. probably ever. **

**anyway, so this one's pretty silly and nonsensical - I like to imagine it's set a year after the events of the film, so Jim is about sixteen and is home on summer vacation from his first year at Interstellar and everything. ((assuming Interstellar HAS a summer vacation? well it's not like we'll ever know anyway what with the canceled sequel and all. and YES I'm still bitter, you got a problem with that? also while we're on the subject my portrayal of him here with his horrible directions is really just for humor.))**

 **I'll try and make my next chapter a little longer, ease us back into our usual length, but for right now the only way I'm writing AT ALL is in short, 700-word bursts. it's harsh af but at least I'm writing, right?**

* * *

 **#1: Getting to the camp site**

"I'm _telling_ you. All we have to do is drive until we get to the dirt road, then stop at the big clump of tall green trees. Oh, and there should be some kind of water nearby. A stream, maybe."

"Oh, _that's_ a great idea. Of course. Why didn't I think— _we're already on a dirt road_ , ye blighter!" Silver snapped, all pretense of patience gone. "And there was that little cluster o' woods an hour ago, but _Davy Jones forbid_ —

"Those trees were blue," Jim reminded him.

"Of course they were! It's _summer_!" Silver countered, exasperated beyond endurance.

"I _told_ you," the kid's own impatience was quickly getting the better of him, "they're marzum trees. They don't turn blue—

"Let me see the map."

"You're _driving_!" Jim protested, drawing the ragged paper to his chest.

"Just let me see it!"

"No! I'm reading it right!"

"Do you want me to pull over? I will pull over—no, I'll turn around. I'll turn us right back 'round, and when we get back, _ye_ can explain to yer dear mother why our weeklong trip lasted four hours."

"You _wouldn't_."

"I would."

"…Just take the map, asshole."

* * *

 **#2: Setting up the tent**

"What are ye…" Silver paused a moment before he resolved to continue; the kid's pride could take a few hits. Hell, this kid's pride _needed_ a few hits, if you asked him. "What are ye doin'?"

It took a minute for an answer to come from beneath the pile of tangled canvas. "…Setting up our tent."

Silver studied the heap of scratchy orange cloth for a few seconds. "Ye look more like ye're tryin' to mate with it."

"Thank you, smartass."

"Anytime, Jimbo. Anytime."

* * *

 **#3: Building a fire**

"You think we've got enough wood?"

"Yeah, figure it'll last us. Stand back, stand back now." Silver motioned for the lad to follow orders, flesh fingers falling immediately to the iron hand, twisting a slim knob; it was shaping up to be a clear, dry night, and likely warm, but the Ursid supposed it was more the spirit of the thing to make a fire, as opposed to actual necessity.

"Wait, we can't do this!"

"Do…do what?" The ex-pirate glanced up cautiously, finger hovering mere inches over the right button.

" _That_!" Jim indicated the Ursid's iron hand, dismay written clear across his face.

Silver frowned. "I'm not followin', lad."

"We can't make a fire using your hand, that's like _cheating_!" The kid proclaimed. "We have to do it right! Y'know, with the _sticks_ and the _rubbing_ and the—why are you laughing? Stop laughing! We have to do this _right_!"

* * *

 **#4: Rain**

"I told you, I _told_ you it rains like crazy here! I _said_ we should pack raincoats—

"Just shut yer yap and get in the tent, Jimbo! Ye're not showin' me up standin' out there and shiverin' like a—

"Your line here is 'I'm sorry, Jim. You were right, and I was wrong. Please forgive me. We should have packed raincoats. I will listen to you next time'."

" _Get in the tent_!"

* * *

 **#5: Fishing**

"Alright, Jimbo!" Smile on his lips and sparkle in his eye, Silver was, for the moment at least, all booming, boisterous cheer. "Are we ready to do some fishin'? Are we ready…to…to… _Jimbo_?" He broke off upon beholding the other, grin flickering, and then vanishing, from his face. "What… _how_ …?"

Jim shot the Ursid a sullen glare. "Don't you say a word."

"I mean, I've met a lot o' lads that couldn't fish, but Jimbo, I swear, ye're the only one I've met who's ever gotten himself tangled in his _own fishin' line_."

* * *

 **#6: Stargazing**

"…that there? That'd be the Pica, if I'm guessin' right. Looks dim right now, don't it? Just ye wait 'til the fall, it'll brighten right up then." Silver glanced at the kid, lying sprawled beside him on the grass, eyes bright with the reflections of scattered stars. "Ye've…really never seen any o' these before?"

Jim gave a small shake of the head. "Unless we're counting pictures, no. What's that one beside the Pica?"

"The Vespera," the cyborg answered at once. "One across from it would be the Miz…then away down there ye can see the Coturnix…"

"…Silver?"

"Mm?"

"Thanks. For…for bringing me out here, I mean. This…this was fun."

A sudden burst of sweet warmth rushed through the cyborg, filling and flooding his chest until the smile taking shape on his lips was all but irresistible. "Ye're welcome, Jimbo."

* * *

 **#7: Getting home**

"Let me see the map."

"No, no, no, I know the way! I was just—

"Let me see the map, Jimbo!"

"Silver, I know the way back to my own _front door_!"

"Then, uh, beggin' yer pardon, what's that sign doin' over there? Y'know, the one sayin', _wrong way_?"

"Probably you."

"Me."

"Yeah. You dragged yourself out here in the middle of the night and put that sign there. To make me doubt myself."

"…Give me the map."


	16. Thief

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: another one in the 'Silver gets pardoned' AU! just start expecting that from me guys seriously xD so this got WAYYY out of hand xDDD but you know what you guys should just expect that by now b/c this is JIM and this is SILVER and they are my FUCKING CHILDREN. just. YEAH.**

 **anyway I just HAD to write this, particularly considering last week was cold af. it made me wonder what winter was like on Montressor**

* * *

Winter had arrived early this year; Jack Frost, they said, had crept slowly upon the tiny, gray planet Montressor, leaving icicles glittering and frost a-crackling in his wake – then had leapt up quite suddenly and wrapped all the world in a frigid, ivory embrace; the snows were thick and relentless, silvery flakes falling in dense, rapid flurries; and it brought an inescapable, intrusive chill, creeping in through the cracks between window and wall, slipping through the gaps between door and floor, until the little houses were scarcely warmer than the howling, wintry chaos outside.

The inhabitants of the Benbow had a particularly difficult time of it; though they had made a popping, merry fire in the little grate, and though they discovered six extra quilts after an hour rummaging through the linen closet; and though little Morphy huddled deep in Jim's pocket, not daring to peep out for anything save a small nibble on a sweet here and there, it made no difference – and as they found they couldn't _elude_ the icy climate, they put their every effort instead into ignoring it.

Sarah Hawkins, the tired owner of the little inn, sat long at the kitchen table, a mug of hot tea in hand; and at her side upon the creaky table sat a battered radio, weather reports playing here and there between long bursts of static; her son chose to stay on the sofa by the fire, trying to coax the little pink blob out of his pocket with the promise of treats; Ben, who had not seen snow in a hundred years or more, stayed by the sitting room window, nose pressed flat against the frigid glass; and Silver—well, to tell the truth, right now Silver was just trying to find his _coat_.

He'd had it, that he remembered, for a decent bit of the morning; but when he'd made a brief, uncomfortable venture out of doors to grab the post and returned, shivering slightly, into the mercifully warm sitting room, Sarah had thoroughly admonished him for the dripping hem, leaving a damp trail all across her floors, and seized the garment at once with many promises to clean and mend it. As such, the old cyborg brought himself down into the kitchen, treading lightly past the sitting room lest sudden noise should frighten poor little Morphy, already quite alarmed by the abrupt shift in temperature.

Once he had reached the dim little room, Silver cleared his throat softly; he had no wish to startle the kindhearted innkeeper. "Sarah?"

The woman looked up at once, slim fingers leaping instantly to the crackling radio to give the knob on the side a twist; the volume dropped straightaway. "It's getting late. I didn't know you were still awake." Her pale hands tightened around her apron front as she spoke.

"Aye, and I'm not plannin' on stayin' up too much longer," the cyborg acknowledged. "Just came in here to ask if ye'd seen my coat 'round here. Haven't been able to find it since ye washed it this mornin'."

Thin, dark brows drew together in confusion. "W-well…well, it _should_ be by the fire…I left it there to dry…and you might ask Jim, he could know…"

"Right, then. Thank ye." The cyborg tipped his head in gratitude before departing at once to the sitting room; however, as it turned out, the Ursid never even made it so far as the fire – the sight on the sofa quite distracted him.

Jimbo lay, deep in slumber and stretched out full along three cushions, mouth slightly open with a drowsy Morphy dozing here and there against the lad's cheek; and the kid was absolutely, utterly _swathed_ in a…humongous… _black coat_.

"Jimbo, ye little scamp!" Though he knew the lad wouldn't hear him, Silver strode forward regardless, flesh hand falling at once to take the layer from the sleeping boy. Yet a mere moment later and the cyborg had drawn his empty hand back to his side, letting loose a soft chuckle. "Rotten little thief," he whispered, running thick fingers through the lad's tangled hair. "Rotten little thief, ye are."

Still, Silver let him keep the coat. After all, if there was anything a man like him could appreciate, it was a good thief.


	17. Hangover

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: ohhhhh god I'm so sorry. xDD I'm so sorry about this one, guys xDDD though *in my defense*, it WAS done on a request by Susu Sally, who asked for a continuation to _Judgment Call_. and as I had a ton of fun writing that one, I decided to go ahead and do it. I WILL get to the other requests on my plate v soon, though! (note: their universe seems v advanced, so we're gonna pretend they have pain relievers and the like. ok? and this is totally NOT b/c I couldn't remember any natural hangover remedies, certainly not...) sooo I hope you like it! please review? :) it encourages me! **

* * *

"Ye alrigh', Jimbo?" The cyborg makes sure to all but bellow the words, rattling pots and pans as obnoxiously as he thinks he can get away with; the sight of the kid standing at the bottom of the galley steps, head in hands and body sagging with exhaustion, brings a triumphant smile to the old pirate's face. Serves the little shit _right_. Just see if he ever downs rum again. "C'mon over here and get to work, lad, quit waitin' for the grass to grow." He emphasizes it all with a final, forceful slam of the nearest cupboard door; hopefully, by now, the pain in the kid's head will be raging at full strength. With luck, today will teach Jimbo a thing or two about getting three sheets to the wind. "An' try and keep yer clothes on while ye're at it. Even if ye _could_ get paid." Silver can't help but smirk at the memory; sure, last night was rough, but he now has a positive _arsenal_ of possible things to hold over this kid's head for the remainder of the voyage.

"My—my _what_?"

"I promise ye won't be making any money off yer nudity in _this_ galley." The cyborg chuckles at his own quip.

" _What_ are you talking about?"

The words draw Silver's attention, and when he looks to the kid, honest confusion shows clear in the blue eyes staring back at him – oh. Oh, shit. Clarity strikes the cook heavily in the chest. Shit, the kid doesn't even _remember_. Small wonder then why he looks like he's considering fleeing the galley, he doesn't remember, he doesn't remember anything from last night, he doesn't—he doesn't remember. _Oh_. Oh, this is going to be _fun_.

Wide smile practically splitting his face, Silver gives his head a little shake, dismissing his own words. "Nothin', lad. Nothin'. Don't worry, though – I know I don't _control you_."

"Okay, what the actual fuck are you talking about?"

"Get to work."

"No, wait, hang on—

"Get to work!" The cyborg booms; as expected, the lad's only answer is a sudden wince, ache in his head evidently reaching new heights – after a second, he collapses obediently down onto the nearest crate, running his fingers lightly over his temple.

Silver, over the next two hours, takes full and rather vicious advantage of the kid's miserable state – and it's nothing, the cook assures himself; nothing, at least, save sweet, well-deserved _payback_. After the night that little hellion just put him through, he feels little more than the slightest twinge of conscience.

Yet even Silver has to admit, when those two hours have ended and his cabin boy still appears positively wretched, he can't help the sudden pang of sympathy in his chest. The old cyborg's had his share of harsh hangovers, and _yes_ – the kid made the previous night absolute hell for him, but—well, maybe he's been punished enough. Even if the lad's memory still boasted a few holes here and there, Silver was confident he must have recalled enough by this time to understand the lesson the cook's trying to teach him. He shakes his head slightly at his own thoughts – whatever hardships the day ahead will bring is surely nothing more than the little smartass _deserves_ – but he follows through nonetheless, reaching up to retrieve a tiny, white bottle from a nearby cupboard and giving it a little shake; the contents rattle resoundingly, assuring the cyborg there is still plenty within.

He can't even believe he's doing this; he's going _way_ too easy on the kid here. Next thing you know, that half-witted crew of his will be saying he's gone soft. The Ursid pushes the thought from his head, prying the cap from the little bottle before reaching to hand two of the ivory pills within to the boy before him. "Here."

Jim eyes the offering suspiciously, yet doesn't take it. "Whatis it?"

"Somethin' for the pain. Help clear up that poundin' in yer little skull there."

The lad's gaze flickers up to his in surprise. "How did you—?"

Silver frowns. By Neptune, how much did the kid have last night? "Ye…ye still don't remember?"

"I was _tired_ ," the boy responds defensively. "I was thinking that had something to do with it."

"It doesn't," the cyborg confirms, pressing the pills into the small, open hand. "Don't ye swallow that dry!" he adds sharply, as the lad tips his head back, evidently intending to do just that. "Get yerself some water 'fore ye choke yer stupid self."

Jim shoots him a look that can only be described as venomous before rising to his feet and crossing the galley to the water barrel. "Fine. Then if I wasn't just tired, what happened last night?"

"Ye tell me," the cook reclaims and reverses the question, turning back to the stove as he speaks. "Ye tell me why ye decided to start knockin' em back like that, eh?"

"Knocking—knocking them…" the kid frowns – in a moment, however, the confusion has become acute horror, and he closes his eyes. "I—I _did_ that?"

"Considerin' ye look like Death himself came up last night and grabbed ye by the balls—

"I _actually did_ that?"

"Yes," the Ursid at last confirms, as it seems the kid won't stop asking until he's made certain. "Ye went and got yerself so smashed ye could hardly stand up. Now ye've got a hangover, and s'no more than yedeserve."

"What—I didn't—I mean…I didn't—I didn't _do anything_ …did I?"

The cook raises an eyebrow. "Jimbo, ye did a _number_ o' things while ye were lit, and most of 'em, I don't care to repeat."

"No—no, seriously," the kid persists, pills in his fist all but forgotten. "C'mon, you—you got to tell me!"

"I already did more'n I should've," the cyborg nods at the bottle still on the counter as he talks. "I don't 'got' to do anythin' else. Take the medicine, lad – it'll help."

The boy obeys, chasing it down with a gulp of water before renewing his efforts. "C'mon, what happened? What did I do?"

The Ursid, however, finds he is quite enjoying himself; just because he helped relieve the kid's pain doesn't mean he ought to do a damn thing to allay his newfound fears. No, let the lad squirm – and this, he thinks to himself, is a far better punishment than a headache. "Back to work, Jimbo."

" _No_." The lad sets his jaw. "Tell me what I did!"

"Do as ye're told," Silver turns to face the kid, leveling a glare at the stubborn teenager. "I don't appreciate repeatin' myself."

The boy considers for a moment before throwing himself, in the most resentful manner possible, back down onto the crate.

But the cyborg finds he can't – no, he really _can't_ – resist one, final jab. "Lad?"

The other is silent for a minute – sulking, probably – but he responds after a beat, albeit a bit nastily. " _What_."

"Ye don't happen to have a shovel by now, do ye?"

"… _What the fuck?!"_


	18. Smile

**A/N: oh look check this out who is this person fINALLY getting their shit together after like five solid months of total radio silence on every story ever? this is essentially my apology for that huge leave of absence. but i went through kind of a block ((and about seven hundred existential crises)) and i'm just now clawing my way back out of the black hole that was my life for a little while. anyway, this is set like the morning after the silver comforts jim scene, and we're gonna pretend they haven't reached treasure planet yet & jim doesn't know silver's a pirate & no one has to get hurt yeT WILL YOU JUST LET ME HAVE THIS. **

**hope you like this chapter. please review it?**

* * *

It isn't his job.

No, really, it isn't his job, it isn't, it isn't, it isn't his goddamn job to make sure some sulky, prepubescent little shit is—what, happy? No, no, hell no, it's hardly even his job to make sure the kid's still alive, come to that – and Silver can say with a near-perfect confidence that his actual job would be a good ten thousand times simpler if maybe he wasn't.

The Ursid hastily quashes the thought the instant it enters his head – premeditation and all of that – but the fact remains: it isn't his job.

It isn't his job, no matter that the lad came slinking down to the galley this morning a good half-hour early with deep, purple circles under his eyes like twin bruises, and still clad in that oversized black jacket; and no matter if he hasn't spoken more than ten words all morning, and no matter that he looks like he hasn't slept the whole night through, and no matter that he refused to play with Morph, and no matter that all of these things puts a rather disconcerting knot in Silver's stomach, it doesn't matter, it doesn't, _it isn't his job_ , and the cyborg refuses to make it so.

Or, at least, he _tries_.

Doesn't mean he won't try maybe just a little harder than usual to tease a smile out of the kid today, doesn't mean he won't laugh a little louder and grin a little wider, and it doesn't mean his chest won't ache when he doesn't get one in return.

He thought – and he wonders now just how stupid that makes him – but he really thought, after what happened last night, that something might have changed, something intangible and indefinable and completely without name, between himself and his cabin boy. He thought, after seeing the bright smile on the kid's face, that he said all the right words, or done all the right things, or maybe just said one right word, or did one right thing, and that it'd be enough – but of course it isn't, and why did he even think for one second that it is? People don't just get over things like this, not when they believe they actually sent someone to their death, not when they think they really _killed_ somebody…

…Of course it was all Scroop's fault, if that blasted arachnid hadn't been so damn impatient, if he hadn't gone and cut that stupid lifeline, if he hadn't gone and made the kid feel like shit…for something that _wasn't even his fault_ …

Anger stirs briefly in Silver's breast at the thought, but he banishes it with a shake of his head – as satisfying as he knows it would be, giving in to temper, it isn't what he needs to be doing. Not right now.

So he turns his attention back to the kid clumsily shoving the scrubbed ceramic dishes up into the cupboard, and smiles. "Why don't ye scuttle down to the storeroom, then, if ye're all finished up here, and grab us up another barrel o' purps, yeah? We'll make some more o' that jam everyone loves. How 'bout that?" He's beginning to wonder if he's being a little _too_ cheerful, if Jimbo can sense what he's trying to do. Judging by the puzzled glance the lad shoots him, he's on the right track.

"Sure," Jim mutters at last, breaking his gaze and gathering up the final stack of plates off the counter, stretching on his toes to place them on the topmost shelf. "Sure, yeah, I'll do that."

"Get on with it, then," the Ursid commands, softening the order with a light prod to the kid's side with his flesh finger; and he starts to say more, except the kid gives a sharp, shrill squeal that would put a puppy to shame, and practically _leaps_ up onto the counter he just cleared.

"What the _hell_ was that?" To tell the truth, Silver knows the kid had a strange, but exceedingly strong, aversion to physical contact, but honestly, _this_ is ridiculous; he doesn't have to go around acting like the cook just tried to kill him or something.

"What the—what the hell was _that_?" Jim slides slowly back down to the galley floor; judging by the vivid flush creeping into his cheeks, and the decidedly defensive tone to his voice, he himself is surprised and embarrassed by his own overreaction.

"Ye sounded like a broken whistle!" Silver retorts. "All I did was—!" In his own ardent defense of his actions, he reaches to repeat the gesture, but the teenager takes a wide step back, and there comes that yelp again…and before he even makes _contact_ , too…

"Don't _touch_ me!"

"Oh, c'mon, it ain't like I'm tryin' to…" Something clicks in the Ursid's brain and a small, probably too-menacing smile pulls at his lips. "Hang on a minute, are ye…are ye _ticklish_?"

"N-no!" Jim is clearly trying to scoff, but considering he's also making a rapid retreat toward the other end of the galley as he talks, the effect isn't too convincing.

"Really?" Silver matches the lad, step for step, and even he can hear the amusement coloring his own voice. "Then…uh…care to tell me why ye're skitterin' away like that, huh?"

"I…I…" The boy's face colors first pink, then scarlet. "Don't touch me!" It's at this moment that he hits the wall opposite, and his wide blue eyes get even wider.

Silver takes full advantage of his momentary distraction, fingers attacking every inch of the kid's unguarded ribcage.

Jim collapses immediately in a fit of uncontrollable laughter, sinking down to the floor and trying unsuccessfully to fight or escape the Ursid's assault. "Quit it! Stop!"

Silver, however, finds he is having far too much fun with this new information to back down so easily; he wanders over to the kid's stomach now, pushing the aside the loose shirt hem to strike at the tanned skin beneath.

"Stop stop stop stop stop!" Jim tries to command, but by this point he's laughing so hard he's starting to squeal again, and eventually he just curls into a ball to try and guard his exposed middle against the cook's merciless fingers.

"I dunno, Jimbo," the cyborg responds as though he's giving these latest words some serious consideration, "what's in it for me, then, lad?"

"Y-you're such an a-asshole," the kid's barely coherent now, between the wild unrestrained shrieks pouring from his mouth, and that he's pressing his face none-too-gently against the floorboards in an attempt to muffle his own noises.

"Yeah, that's _definitely_ convincin' me," Silver locks a gentle hand under the boy's chin and forces it up, prying his head off the ground – he isn't looking to suffocate the kid after all. "Maybe if ye asked me nicely…"

"N-nicely?" Jim sputters incredulously, before a few vicious, well-aimed prods in the region of his higher ribs drags him back into another round of hysterics. "F-fuck! Stop it, stop it!"

"Oh, _c'mon_ ," Silver feigns annoyance, giving the kid another jab, fingers traveling slowly down the length of his side, "I know this ain't exactly yer strong suit, but even ye can do better than that."

"You're such—no—stop—stop!" The boy's voice rises slightly in desperation, and the cyborg notes with some amusement that it starts to crack halfway through. "If you don't c-cut it out…"

"Ohhh, yeah. I'm _real scared_ of a lad half my size, and laughin' so hard he can barely speak." It occurs to the cook in a vague sense that this last comment is probably bordering on cruel, but the way he sees it, it's the lad's own fault - he's just too damn easy to tease.

"You—!" Jim's wounded pride is evident, but he doesn't get much opportunity to elaborate before he starts howling again, squirming and flailing in an attempt to escape. "Stop! Stop! Stop! _Fuck_! I'm sorry, okay! I'm sorry! Just cut it out! _Please_!"

Silver – rather reluctantly – ceases his assault, wide smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "See how easy it is when ye ask _nicely_?"

The kid's silent for a second or two, gasping greedily for the air his own laughter just denied him.

"You're an ass," he says at last, but he's still breathing a little too deeply and smiling a little too widely for the words to have any effect at all. "I hate you."

"Feelin's mutual," the Ursid informs him. "Now ye go get those purps."

With a seemingly enormous effort, the boy peels himself up off the floor and disappears from the galley; and a pair of mismatched eyes follows the lad the whole way up the steps, and no matter how hard he tries the owner of them can't seem to banish the stupid grin threatening to take over his face.

No, it definitely isn't his job, Silver concedes; and maybe he is getting in too deep, but something inside him refuses to be quelled at the thought. No one saw them, no one heard them, no one knows how the kid's laughter made that tight, sharp ache in his chest dissipate, no one knows, no one knows, and all he can really feel, at least for right now, is one huge, overwhelming surge of _fuck it_.

And he knows he'll do damn near anything to make his cabin boy smile.


	19. Good Kid

**a/n: hOLY FUCKIN CRUD. THIS IS SERIOUSLY A PIT OF ANGST. WHAT THE FUCK DO I EVEN CALL THIS. SERIOUSLY. OMG. also ahhhhhh i hit 100 reviews! omfg i hit 100 reviews ahhhhhhhhhh thank you all so so so so so much! that was so incredible to see! seriously thank you all! i love you guys! you guys make my life! i'd put like seven hundred heart emoticons here if the site let me!**

 **okay but this...i don't even know what to call this. this has literally nothing to do with jim & silver's relationship but? i feel it fits b/c jim's relationship with his father was just as essential to the storyline imo. also in the art book for this film, it said something about jim tried really hard to be perfect for his dad, and when it didn't work, he felt like such a huge failure b/c he wasn't good enough for his father to stay. one thing led to another, and...this is the result.**

* * *

My first fight hurt like hell.

My knuckles ached like crazy afterward – I couldn't throw a punch worth shit, and I knew it, but that didn't stop me from trying – my nose didn't quit bleeding for maybe another hour, and when I caught a look at myself in the mirror, it was all swollen and the skin around my right eye had turned purple. My hair was a mess and there was a week's worth of detention for fighting on school property and I just looked god-fucking-awful, even for a Monday, but I smiled at the guy in the mirror anyway.

My first drink made my head spin, and my second made me say things to total strangers I wouldn't even tell my own mother; my fifth made me wish I was dead, and I rushed into the bathroom the next morning and started throwing up, and I kept throwing up for maybe ten minutes straight. When I saw myself in the mirror above the sink, I saw there were circles underneath my eyes, and my shirt was inside out, and I looked a little like I'd crawled out of a highway sewer.

"You look like shit," I mumbled, maybe because I meant it or maybe just to talk, to see if my throat still worked after all that throwing up. And then I slammed my hand down on the laminate counter and laughed a little, and the sound echoed, bouncing off all the cold bathroom tile, and I said it again. "You look like _shit_!"

I sank down to the floor then, holding my head in my hands, and I looked like a _fucking piece of shit_ , and I was just so damn glad my outside was finally starting to look like my inside.

My first piercing was my right earlobe, but I planned to get more after that.

I didn't have any money to get it done right at the time, but _right_ wasn't the way I did things anyway, and in the end I just drove a needle straight through the skin the way the guy in my history class told me I could. It worked.

It _hurt_ – not like my first fight where it hurt to smile, or my first drink where it hurt to think, but it hurt. Not like pain ever bothered me anyway.

I stuffed a dull silver stud into the hole after the needle, which made it hurt even more. I liked the way the thing caught the light. I liked the way it hurt.

My first run-in with the cops didn't even have anything to do with my solar surfer – just a couple cans of cheap black spray paint and the words _FUCK YOU_ spelled out in huge messy letters all across the side of some abandoned building way out on the edge of town where I thought no one would ever find it. Long story short, a couple officers caught wind of things, and they didn't seem to care that no one was even living in the stupid place, they hauled my ass down to the station anyway and made me wait while they gave Mom a call.

It made her cry, too, and I know it did, 'cause I didn't see it for myself but when she came to pick me up, she tightened her lips and her eyes had that dark hollow look they got whenever she was really upset about something.

I didn't go to sleep when we got back, even though it was past eleven, and I know she didn't go to sleep either 'cause the light under her bedroom door didn't go out until almost an hour later, and when I glanced in the mirror at myself, my cheeks were all flushed and the braid at the back of my neck had come loose somewhere in the night so my hair was all over the place, and I still had a smear of black paint down the back of my left hand.

I never even told her I was sorry.

It wasn't the sort of stuff a good kid would do – getting into fights just 'cause they just felt like hitting someone, or getting so drunk they couldn't even remember the night before, or pissing off police officers and making their mom cry – but I wasn't a good kid. I didn't _want_ to be a good kid. I could sit down, I could shut up, I could smile, yeah, sure, I could even be nice if I really tried. I could be a good kid if I _wanted_ to.

But playing the good kid, it didn't get me a damn thing. It didn't make anything better. It didn't make Mom and Dad stop fighting, no matter how many bright red As the teachers put on my math tests. No matter how many times I sat down, no matter how many times I shut up, no matter how much I smiled, it didn't make a single goddamn difference. And I couldn't make Dad stay with me, no matter how much of a good kid I tried to be.

So maybe I could get him to come back by being the farthest thing from it.


	20. Restoration

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **a/n: ughhhhh what am i even going to call this D: i don't even have a title that's how pathetic i am right now. but i'm so dead inside i don't really care. for those of you who don't know ((but i don't expect that'll be too many people)) this one's based loosely off an anecdote from _jim's journal_ , the companion book to the film. it was a lot different in the book, though. i'm just starved for jim/silver, so i had to do something. anyway i took a lot of creative liberties with both jim & silver's characters here, so it probably sucks but i hope it doesn't. idk anymore. i'd definitely appreciate reviews, but as always, they're not expected or demanded. **

**disclaimer, i don't own jim hawkins or john silver. i don't even own this idea b/c i'm a hack.**

* * *

It had just been one of those days.

Nothing was going right today aboard the _Legacy_ , and every time I turned around, it was like something else was just waiting to go off, to just explode in my face.

The trouble started almost the second I woke up, when we had some pretty rough turbulence that set the whole ship swaying like crazy back and forth, and I'd spilled the captain's café lattoid all over the deck on the way to her cabin because of it. I had to go back and refill the cup, which made me late bringing the captain her drink, and that annoyed her, which pissed Silver off, so he bitched at me for ten minutes straight about paying attention and taking stuff seriously, before pointing to the mop and bucket in the corner of the galley and telling me to clean up the spill.

When I got back down to the galley about ten minutes later to help the old grump with breakfast, I kind of got lost in thought and let the toast burn, and I tried to apologize, I _did_ , but I think by that point Silver really just wanted me out of the galley, because he made me scrub the crow's nest instead, and I didn't help him with lunch, either. He left me with orders to organize the galley pantry while he cooked, and Morph got into all sorts of trouble when I wasn't looking. He kept knocking things off the shelves or rearranging them every time I turned my back, which got me _another_ scolding from Silver, and it didn't do a whole lot of good saying that it wasn't my fault.

By the end of the day, the old cyborg had worked himself into a pretty lousy temper, and I really just wanted to get away from him and get some sleep. I raked my stained dishrag a little roughly over the last stack of scrubbed ceramic plates, before quickly gathering them all up in my hands and weaving my way over to the cupboards. The sooner I did this, the sooner I'd get out from under Silver's burning glare and believe me, that minute couldn't come fast enough tonight.

I'd almost reached the cabinets when I—I guess I must have tripped, because the next thing I knew, I was lying sprawled out on the galley floor, with what looked like a billion plates crashing down with me.

And I could hear Silver rushing over to me; I could hear his shoes squeaking slightly against the greasy floor; I could hear him starting to yell, but it was all distant and muffled, like I'd gone underwater, and my head was pounding and my hands were shaking and I was so damn tired I probably could have slept right there if he'd let me, and no matter how loudly he bellowed, I wasn't picking up a word of it.

Then I realized he'd fallen silent. He'd stopped yelling.

The sudden lull got my attention, if nothing else; the only problem was that I couldn't tell whether it was exactly a good sign, or a bad sign, or just something in between. When he didn't start talking again, though, I wondered if maybe he was waiting for me to do that, so I fished for something to say that wasn't a swear. "…Oops."

"Is that all ye've got?" Silver practically exploded on me, cybernetic eye flashing vivid red. " _Oops_? No, don't say anythin' different now, it won't be nothin' but another o' yer pitiful excuses anyway, and we both know _they_ don't mean nothin'. Just…just get this cleaned up, right?"

"It was an accident!" I said hotly, pushing myself to my feet as I spoke. "I just _tripped_ , it wasn't like—

"No, shut up," he raised a hand to hush me. "Just shut up. I don't want to hear it, whatever it is ye got to say. From the second I put ye to work today, all ye've done is make trouble for everyone else aboard, and as a matter o' fact, I'm startin' to think that's all ye can do. I ain't too patient a man, and if ye want to keep makin' a nuisance of yerself, I warn ye, I'll be settin' ye straight sharpish, and ye won't like it too well."

"I—

"I'm lettin' ye off easy right now, as far as I'm concerned," he continued coldly, but the red glow was starting to dim slightly now that he'd gotten it over with. "And all I'm askin' of ye tomorrow is that ye get all yer work done, without ruinin' everythin' else while you're at it."

All my arguments died on my tongue.

"Now ye get this cleaned up, and don't forget to put out the galley lamps when ye're done. I'm guessin' ye can do that much." The words were rough and blunt, and the force of them brought a sharp, awful heat to my cheeks.

 _Ruining everything. Ruining everything. I ruined everything. I ruined everything._ It made me feel like my chest was caving in on me.

Silver turned his back to me, storming noisily up the galley's narrow, dark stairway, leaving me standing alone, shaking slightly, in a pile of broken plates.

I'd…I'd ruined everything. He was right, Silver was right, I was ruining everything, I was always ruining everything, that was all I _could_ do, he was right, and the truth in his words lay littering the ground around me. I ruined everything, that was what I did, and a couple months in space weren't going to change that. I didn't know why I'd ever thought they would.

A small chirp somewhere above me broke through my thoughts – Morph. I pushed my lips into something like a smile before lifting my head to look up at him, reaching out a hand to let him rest in my palm.

"Hey, you should—you should probably go on to bed, Morph. It's—it's pretty late. You won't miss anything. I've just got to sweep this up." I gestured loosely to the shattered dishes as I spoke. "Go on. I'll see you in the morning, right?" I gave his head a gentle rub with my finger.

He chirped again, a little more insistently this time.

"All right, all right. You can stay, if that's what you want, but when you're falling asleep on the job tomorrow, I won't be taking _any_ heat for you from…" I broke off before I could finish my sentence, drawing in a shuddering breath. Any kind of cheer I'd managed to muster up for Morph slipped through my fingers again, like water in my cupped hands. I ruined everything.

The little blob in my hand peeped anxiously, and I dragged the smile back onto my face. Maybe I did ruin everything, but I'd been living with that for fifteen years now. I'd be damned if I upset Morph just because someone found a new way to make those words hurt.

"All right, come on. I need my hands for right now, okay?" I lowered him gently down into my pocket, waiting until he'd crawled inside to grab up the broom.

The sooner I got this mess cleaned up, the sooner I could get to sleep and put this whole day behind me.

I set to work, sweeping up the glistening white shards, but Silver's voice was still echoing in my head, the words beating and battering around inside my brain, _you've ruined everything, you've ruined everything_ , and _all you do is cause trouble_ and _maybe that's all you can do_ , and then it was the cops with _you're a wrong-choicer_ , and _you're a dead-ender_ , and _you're a loser_ , and _I'd fucked up, I'd fucked up, I'd fucked up, all I could do was fuck up_ , and _nothing I ever tried to do would make any difference_ , and _there wasn't even any damn point in trying_.

I pushed all the pieces up into the dirty dustpan with the edge of the broom, but something buried deep in the jumble of broken plates twitched, and I put my hand instinctively over my pocket before I realized it wasn't anything except my own face, reflected back at me in fractured ceramic.

Revulsion flared somewhere in the pit of my stomach, twisting my insides into knots at the sight – still the same eyes, still the same mouth, still the same face, still the same stupid, idiotic fuck-up loser that got on this ship last week.

Except now Silver knew I was a loser, too.

And there wasn't a damn thing I could do to change that.

That thought really got to me, and I didn't know why – it wasn't like I gave a shit what Silver thought of me in the first place, he was a short fuse to begin with and had already yelled at me about ten times before, and this shouldn't bother me, _except it fucking did_.

I didn't like the guy too well, that was pretty much a given, but I could admit the old cyborg was…he was decent. He'd helped me out of that fight with that crazy-ass spider, and he knew his stuff when it came to sailing, no joke there. And he worked hard – he did everything the captain ordered him to do, and he did it all without questioning her, without complaining to me or anyone, and he did it all really well. He didn't ruin things.

He didn't ruin things.

And I'd gone and ruined _everything_.

Burning the toast, spilling that drink, breaking all these dishes…he was right, all I'd done all day was mess up, but maybe…maybe I could change that. I took another look at the dustpan piled high with smashed plates, and went to my knees on the floor, dumping them all back out.

Morph twittered shrilly in annoyance, wheeling out of my pocket to fix me with a glare. I'd almost forgotten about him, but the sudden movement must've scared the poor guy.

"Sorry, little guy. Forgot you were in there." I offered him my hand and he amicably licked at my knuckles to let me know all was forgiven before fluttering down into my open palm. "Listen," I tipped the dustpan up on its bottom edge as I spoke, letting the last few stubborn pieces join their fellows on the galley floor. "Do you think you can help me find some glue?"

The little blob rose instantly from my hand, swooping over to the stairs with a series of sharp, excited squeaks and I followed him up the steps, down into the storage lockers and straight to a little jar full of thick whitish paste, a little fat paintbrush perched beside it.

It didn't look like the sort of stuff that would put the broken plates back together, and keep them that way, but it was the best I had, so I took it back down to the galley with me anyway and got to work, pushing my hair out of my eyes as I settled back down on the floor.

Some of the plates had shattered into such tiny fragments, I couldn't use them, and those went right back into the dustpan, but a lot of others had only broken into three or four pieces, and they were still in okay shape, I just had to find which parts fit where. The shards I handled were jagged and sharp, and some of them left long red scratches on my palms, blood welling up and trickling down my hands in thin scarlet drops, but I just wiped them away and kept working. If I took my eyes off the plates for even a minute, I was worried I'd fall asleep right there in the middle of the galley, and I couldn't do that, I…had to…finish…

* * *

"…Jimbo…"

Someone was…someone was talking to me. Someone was…they were…they were trying to…to call my name…

"Jimbo?!"

…there was only one person who'd called me something that stupid and actually gotten away with it…but that couldn't be right, he sounded almost—gentle…

"Jimbo!" A warm, heavy hand clapped down on my shoulder as he spoke, shaking me lightly. The motion, weak as it was, sent a wave of burning pain through my back, and I groaned softly into my forearm. Wait, that wasn't right, why was I so _sore_?

"Come on, lad, wake up!" There wasn't even so much as a trace of impatience in his voice, and I knew then something had to be wrong. Silver wasn't gentle, Silver wasn't patient, he should _at least_ be yelling at me by this point, so why wasn't he? He didn't even sound annoyed, just maybe a little bit…worried? What the hell was he worried about?

Wait, come to think of it, _none of this_ was right – my knees pressed against cool wood, my head tilted at an uncomfortable, awkward angle…and I realized I could feel Silver's breath on the side of my face, and we never got that close to each other if we could help it…and funny, when I forced my tired eyes open, there was sunlight streaming in from the right, and it looked more like we were down in the galley than the crew's quarters…

Everything that happened last night came crashing back down on me, full-force, and I shot up from the floor, ignoring the screams of protest from my muscles. The plates. I hadn't finished the plates.

"Now just hold on a second!" Silver locked a hand around my wrists before I could go any farther, fingers warm and rough against my skin.

"But I…I didn't finish," I said stupidly, fighting against his grip even though I knew I didn't have a chance of breaking free. "I—I didn't…" As I spoke, I glanced to the counter opposite, stacked with the plates I'd pieced together last night and let my hands fall limp in his grasp.

"Hang on a second, just hang on…" But even as he protested, his dark gaze followed mine, and I felt his fingers slacken. "…what…" He let go of me altogether then to cross the galley and pick up the plates, one after the other, running thick and hesitant fingers over the thin cracks I'd poured the paste into. "But—but these…what…what happened?"

Now that I thought about it, I realized I hadn't exactly planned out how _this_ part would go – to tell the truth, I'd sort of been thinking I could just disappear until I was sure the old cyborg had seen the plates, and then I could just get to work and we could just pretend nothing had even happened at all. Guess that wasn't an option anymore.

"I—uh—w-well, I fixed them." I winced inwardly at the stammer. "I-I mean, I did a shit job, a-and you can tell. But I figured we could still, like, use them, right?"

And Silver, he didn't even say anything, just kept _staring_ at me, and that probably meant I'd fucked up again or something, I'd done something wrong, I'd ruined something else, but this time I hadn't meant to, I'd actually been trying to _fix_ things this time…

"You did this?" His voice broke suddenly through my thoughts, and I realized he still hadn't put down the last dish. Maybe it looked shittier than the rest.

"W-well, yeah. I-I mean I know it doesn't _look_ …I know it won't—I know you don't think I—I know we're not…" Shit, what was I even saying? I didn't even have a way to finish the sentence, so I just sputtered into silence while he kept staring down at that damn plate.

"All—all night?" He asked, a little uncertainly. "By yerself?"

"Morph helped me find the glue." I lifted the little blob from my pocket and held him out to Silver, but the cyborg grabbed my outstretched hand instead with a cry of horror.

Pain burst in the center of my palm, and I jerked my arm instinctively, resisting his grip again. "Shit! What the hell are you _doing_?"

"What the hell—what the hell are _ye_ doin'?" He retorted, jabbing a furious finger at my hand; I followed the gesture with my eyes, and my own irritation ebbed away at the sight. Thin, ugly scratches covered every inch of my open palms, dried blood coursing down toward my wrists and staining the stinging skin.

" _Oh_."

Silver snorted in what sounded a little too close to disapproval for my comfort. "Yeah, _oh_! Jimbo, what the hell were ye doin', how the hell did this happen?"

"The plates," I said softly, remembering the pinpricks of pain blossoming all along my hands last night. "Some of the plates…they broke into really sharp pieces, a-and when I picked them up…" I traced one of the scratches with my index finger.

Silver made a noise I couldn't define, but it sounded a little like he was choking off another snort. " _Why_?"

"…Because they were sharp?"

"Don't get smart," he snapped, even though I hadn't been. "Ye know what I mean, Jimbo, _why'd_ ye go to all this trouble to begin with? Stayin' up all night slicin' yerself to ribbons, for God's sake, lad, fixin' a couple plates weren't worth this!"

"Yeah, well, _I_ broke them!" I countered, clenching my smarting hands into fists. "And I couldn't fix anything else! I can't—I can't go back and fix all the other shit I fucked up yesterday, but I figured I should put right what I can! I know I did a shit job, and I know you're right, I know I ruined everything, but I fixed—I fixed _something_ , all right?"

And then he was back to staring at me, and he wasn't saying anything and he wasn't moving and there was something in the way he was looking at me, and I couldn't read it, couldn't understand or explain it, all I knew was that if he kept looking at me like that, I was really going to lose it.

So I started talking instead because damn it, someone had to fill the silence here, and by the looks of things, he sure as hell wasn't going to do it anytime soon. "Look, just…" I raked a hand roughly through my tangled hair, drawing in a breath that hitched and shuddered a little. "…just forget it. Forget it. It's whatever. I did a shit job, it—it doesn't even matter. What—what do you need me to do next? Is it too early to take the captain her coffee?"

"Sit down," Silver barked, almost before I'd finished my sentence.

"Wh-what?" I was pretty sure I hadn't heard him right.

"Ye heard me. Sit down." He jerked his chin toward the upturned crate in the center of the room as he headed for the stairs. "And wait here. Don't move."

I thought for a minute of arguing with him, maybe pressing him until he gave me a good enough reason to do what he wanted, but I finally decided it wasn't worth the effort and settled, slow and uncertain, down onto the wooden top.

Silver disappeared up the stairway, wooden steps creaking under his weight, and I stared up after him in silence for a minute, doubt quickly setting in. What was he even going to do when he got back?

Yell at me some more, probably. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat at the thought. Just because I was used to getting yelled at didn't mean I liked it all that much. God, I just wanted to get _out_ of here. I dropped my head into my hands at the thought.

Maybe I'd get off easy. Maybe he'd just send me up to the deck with a scrub brush and a bucket, or the captain's coffee. Maybe there wouldn't be any shouting, maybe I could just get started on my morning chores and we could both pretend the past thirty minutes had never happened. At this point, I'd give everything I hadn't lost in the fire for something as simple as that.

The cyborg's return jerked me suddenly from my thoughts; when I glanced up at him, he was holding a thin white bottle even smaller than the jar of paste Morph had led me to last night, and he didn't look like he was going to yell at me. Maybe things were going to be simple, after all.

I lifted my head from my hands at the thought, and watched him stride around the crates to stand in front of me.

"Give me yer hands." He didn't look at me as he talked, focusing instead on unscrewing the bottle cap.

"Wh-why?" I didn't mean to do it, but I realized after a minute that I'd pressed my palms into my chest at his words. "What are you going to do?"

"Get those cuts cleaned up a bit," he said roughly, plunging one corner of a dirty, discolored rag down into the now open bottle. "Cabin boys can't work with bleedin' hands." He still wasn't looking at me.

I nodded, even though I knew he wouldn't see it, and held out my hands to him; when he pressed the damp rag to the stinging scratches, I couldn't suppress a wince at the pain.

Things were quiet between us for a little while – Morph settled lightly on my shoulder as Silver scrubbed gently at my palms, clearing away the dried blood, still slightly sticky against my skin, and while he worked, I didn't make a sound. I didn't think I was really awake enough to talk, to be honest; I almost nodded off several times while I sat on the crate, and only kept my eyes open with extreme effort.

In the end, Silver was the one to break the silence, voice so low I thought I imagined it at first. "I shouldn't have yelled at ye."

"H-huh?"

"I-I shouldn't have," he repeated, slightly louder this time. "I shouldn't have yelled at ye like that. Weren't right." He turned my hands over as he spoke to inspect the backs, but there were no marks there to tend. "Weren't like ye meant to break those plates."

Maybe I'd fallen asleep. Maybe I was dreaming all of this. It seemed ten times more likely than the crusty old galley cook being almost…nice to me, cleaning my cuts and…and acting almost like he was trying to apologize…

"And it don't matter a lick that ye did," he continued softly, breaking me out of my thoughts. He set the rag down on the nearest counter to draw up some plaster and bandages, but I noticed he kept one hand locked around both of mine. He still wouldn't meet my eyes. "Really, they were only a couple o' plates. Don't matter too much, anyway."

I tried not to move too much when he started wrapping my hands, thin white covering stretching taut across my dirty skin. I got the sense he was running out of words by now, talking just to fill the silence, or maybe just until I replied. I was so tired, though, I could hardly think straight – there was no way I had it in me to carry on a conversation at this point. I wished he'd stop talking, stop messing with me like this. I preferred the Silver who hollered at me over a dozen broken plates and told me I ruined everything to the one in front of me, pressing bandages to my palms and telling me he shouldn't have yelled in the first place. I didn't even know how to deal with this second Silver, and I wasn't really sure I wanted to.

"But—but ye didn't ruin nothin'," he added quickly, flattening the last bit of plaster over the final cut. "I shouldn't have said ye did. Weren't right o' me."

"Hey." I offered him a half-assed smile, lifting one shoulder and letting it drop again in a half-shrug. "It's no big deal. Wasn't like you were _wrong_."

Silver let go of my hands suddenly, dropping them back into my lap like I'd burned him. "Pardon?" There was the barest edge of anger to his voice, and I got the feeling that if he started yelling at me now, there wouldn't be any apologies after this one.

"Come on, you know what I mean." Judging by the look on his face, though, I had to admit he probably didn't. "I got in everyone's way, I caused a ton of trouble for everyone else here, I pissed off the captain first thing this morning, I just—like you said, I ruined everything, okay?" I guess my voice came out a little more… _defensive_ than I wanted, though, because he started that thing again where he just stared at me like his sole aim today was to make me as uncomfortable as humanly possible before noon.

"Ye made a few mistakes," he said at last, breaking the awful silence. "Ye made a few mistakes, that's it, that's all. Hardly what I'd call ruinin' everythin'."

"I spilled the captain's coffee," I reminded him. "I pissed her off."

"Ye got her some more," he said, like that made it okay.

"I—I burned the toast."

"I made more." He screwed the bottle cap back on.

"I—I broke all of those plates!" Before I knew it, I was on my feet, jabbing a finger at the plates on the counter across from me, cracks filled with stiff, drying glue. "A-and I did a shit job, and—and I couldn't fix them all, and I didn't even finish—

"Fixed the ones ye could, though," he interrupted, voice unexpectedly mild; he threw a glance over his shoulder at the dishes I'd just pointed out, mouth twisting into what looked almost like a smile. "And did a damn good job o' it, too."

I raised my eyebrows at the unexpected - and obviously untrue - praise. "I'm pretty sure I—

"Ain't really what I'd call a shit job meself," Silver went on, like he couldn't even hear me. "So ye'll see where I'm comin' from when I say I don't think ye ruin everythin'."

"What does this have to do with—?"

"Ye're doin' good, actually, ye know that?"

"Really?" I kicked myself the instant the words left my lips – I sounded so _needy_ , so _whiny_ , so stupid and self-conscious, the same pathetic fuck-up I'd been last night as I pieced those plates together, and I was sure Silver could hear it, too. He got that look on his face again, the one I couldn't read or describe, and it set my hands to shaking again.

Something in his expression seemed to soften. I didn't know what it meant. I really just wanted to get the hell out of here, but as if he'd read my mind, his hand went to my shoulder and squeezed it lightly, locking me in place. "Jimbo. I—I _know_ what I said to ye last night, and—and most of it – at least the parts concernin' ye – I—I didn't mean a word o' it. I said a lot o' things I shouldn't have, a lot o' things I didn't think ye'd believe, and it—it weren't right o' me, and I know that. But ye—ye ain't ruinin' _nothin_ ', are we clear?" He waited until I nodded before he kept going. "It don't matter how many—how many drinks ye spill, or—or how much toast ye burn, or how many plates ye break. Ye're doin' good. Take me word for it, Jimbo. Ye're doin' real good." He gave my shoulder one last clap, and continued briskly without waiting for my response. "Now why don't ye get yerself down to the crew's quarters, yeah?"

"Yeah," I mumbled absently, still barely able to believe what he'd just said to me – Silver, rough and short-tempered Silver had just given me what sounded like a really bizarre, rambling kind of _compliment_. Hell, maybe I really _was_ dreaming all of this. "Yeah, okay." His last words finally pierced the heavy haze in my head, and I added, "What do you want me to do when I get down there?" I was already trying to remember where I'd left the mop and bucket.

Silver broke into a broad grin. " _Sleep_."

"What?"

"Ye heard me! Ye've been up all night workin', and ye look dead on yer feet. No way in hell ye're workin' in this state. Go on, off with ye."

"This is—I don't—! I'm fine, I don't need to _sleep_ ," I began, stuttering slightly at the ridiculousness of it all, but then I interrupted myself with a huge yawn that sort of destroyed my whole argument; when I glanced back up at Silver, his mouth was twitching like he was fighting back a smile.

"What were ye sayin', then?"

"Fine." I made sure my sigh lasted long enough to let him know I wasn't happy about it, but it didn't look much like he cared, so I gave up and headed for the steps. When I reached them, though, I paused, staring down at my bandaged hands, running through our conversation again in my mind. He didn't have to help me. He didn't have to clean up the cuts, or bandage them, and he didn't have to say all the stuff he did about how I was doing good…

I swung back around to face him. "H-hey, Silver?"

"Thought I told ye to be off," he tossed the rag he'd used to clean my hands down into the sink as he spoke.

"No, no, I know that, I—I just—I mean—thanks."

He shot me a questioning glance, one brow rising a little.

"For…" I could feel a flush rising in my cheeks. "…all of it."

Silver's face softened, mouth curving upward to form a slight smile. "Anytime, Jimbo."


	21. Nerves

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: what even is this. i don't even know where this came from. i just got to thinking about that _Damn it Jimbo_ chapter and how much i needed to update this fic  & this was born. it can be in the Damn it Jimbo universe if you want it to be, but it doesn't have to be it can just be any old au where silver & jim found a way to stay together after the film ended. i don't even fucking know. **

* * *

"I…I need to tell you something."

The sudden solemnity in the tone startled Silver a bit, and he paused in his work, hands stilling round the freshly laundered linens, to glance up at the speaker, and gesture for him to continue with a brief nod.

Jim edged a little farther into the room, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, and looking vastly uncomfortable. "I have a—well, I-I wanted you to—I—I…"

Lords, was he _blushing_? The beginnings of a grin started to tug at Silver's lips – this was going to be good, he could tell. Still, he had better things to do with his time than stand there and watch the kid stammer, so he prompted him with a pointed, "Jimbo."

"I met someone," Jim blurted awkwardly, then immediately looked mortified at his own choice of words. "I mean…I didn't—no, what I'm trying to say is—  
" _Met someone_?" Silver repeated, grin spreading rapidly.

"That's not what I meant!" Jim sputtered, cheeks blazing red. "I mean—I mean, I _did_ meet—no, but that's not—I mean, I…I'm _with_ someone." He released a heavy breath, evidently relieved to have conquered the worst of it. "And…and I…I want you to meet them."

Silver's smirk slipped. "What? Ye want me to—ye want me to _what_?"

"I want you to meet them," Jim reiterated at once, as though he had long prepared himself for his friend's confusion. "They want it, too."

"Ye've told them 'bout me?" Silver wrinkled his brow. "Hang on, how come ye told them 'bout me, but ye're only just tellin' _me_ 'bout _them_?"

Jim flushed again, and dropped his gaze to the floor. "Never—never a good time, I don't know. Look, do you want to meet them or not?"

"Never a good time," Silver muttered incredulously. "Any old time would do!"

"Do you want to meet them or _not_?" Jim demanded, obviously intent on an answer; the instant the words left his lips, his confidence seemed to drain away, and he backed up several steps. "You know what, forget it. It was a stupid question. I just thought—

"Now hang on, Jimbo," Silver dumped the linens unceremoniously on the sofa and folded his arms over his broad chest as he spoke. "Did ye hear me say _no_?"

Jim glanced up at the cyborg, as if to ensure his sincerity, before a smile slowly took shape on his lips. "We're going out tomorrow—if, you know, you wanted to talk before we left…"

"Sounds good." Question resolved, Silver turned to resume his work, before a new thought occurred, and he straightened, glancing at the kid again. "Hang on, what's their name?"

"What?"

" _Name_ , Jimbo," he repeated, corners of his mouth curling up in a smile. "If I'm goin' to meet 'em, I got to know their name, don't I?"

"Oh." It seemed Jim genuinely hadn't thought of this yet. "Right. Yeah. That…that makes sense."

"Jimbo," he pressed, as it seemed the uncertain stuttering was about to make a reappearance.

"Their…" Jim paused, and took a breath, as if steeling himself, before he continued. " _His_ name is Judas."

Silver almost dropped his linens. So _that's_ what all this nervous fumbling was about! The kid wasn't _just_ trying to tell him he was seeing someone, he was trying to tell him…oh. _Oh_. It made sense, now that Silver had begun to consider it, but lords, was that _it_? Was that why the lad was working himself into a tizzy? For gods' sakes, it was like Jimbo half-expected him to express anger or even upset at the news – it didn't matter to him who the kid preferred, so long as he was happy with them.

"Do you…do you still want to meet him?" Jim's voice pulled from his thoughts; when he glanced back, he saw the kid glancing nervously up at him from under the unkempt hair tumbling into his eyes, the familiar set to his jaw that told him Jim was setting himself up for rejection.

Silver abandoned the linens entirely to approach the lad, clapping a hand down on his shoulder and giving him a gentle smile. "I'd love to."

Jim hardly seemed to believe it, even as a delighted grin spread slowly across his face. "You—you mean it?"

"O' course," Silver couldn't hold back a chuckle, reaching up to tousle the kid's hair as he spoke. "Got to make sure he's good enough for my boy, and all."


	22. Breakfast

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: so this one's pretty silly & literally serves no purpose except i saw a prompt online that was "imagine your brotp fighting over something really ridiculous" **

* * *

"What are ye _doin'_?"

Jim glanced up, a bit startled, the open cereal box still poised a few inches over his chipped ceramic bowl, brow wrinkling as he considered the question. "…Pouring cereal?"

"Over _milk_?" Silver demanded, dismayed expression betraying his opinion on this decision.

Jim frowned. "Is there a problem with that?"

"Is there a problem with—? There are a _hundred_ problems with that! Why in the world did ye pour the milk _first_?"

"'Cause the milk was closer, I guess," Jim replied, utterly baffled by the peculiarity of his friend's inquiry. "Does it matter?"

This obviously wasn't the answer Silver was looking for, considering he began to sputter, still gazing in wide-eyed horror at the creamy liquid filling the bowl. "Who puts their milk in before the cereal?"

Jim laughed – he couldn't help it. It was all just so _ridiculous_ , it was all so _silly_ , and Silver just looked so _serious_ about it, like he really thought maybe the balance of the _universe_ was hinging on how he made his _breakfast_ , of all things. "You are so _weird_!"

" _I'm_ weird? Who's the one pouring the milk _first_?"


	23. Future

**Permit Me a Father Fantasy**

 **A/N: I thought of this, and it made my heart phYSICALLY CLENCH so i decided to share it with you guys lmao. reviews help me grow so please leave some!**

* * *

He made the right decision.

He made the right decision, he knows he made the right decision, and seeing the man the boy's become only serves to drive that conviction home.

Jim is—he's glowing, he's absolutely glowing, there's just no other word to describe it, not when the smile on his face is nothing short of radiant and the set of his shoulders speaks of the same smooth, easy confidence he possessed when they parted, and he's all lit up from the inside out with that same blazing, unconquerable inner fire Silver had always seen in him.

And he knows he made the right decision, because now everyone else can see it, too.

He takes a small step back, sinking into the shadows – familiar, welcoming things shadows are, especially after all these years he's spent skulking 'round in them – and pulls his hat low; can't let anyone catch a glimpse of that damn eye of his, especially not the man Jim's grown up into. It's suddenly hard to swallow at the thought, because when he said goodbye, Jim _wasn't_ a man, and he can still see hints of the boy he was, if he only looks hard enough, and it makes his heart _hurt_ like nothing he's ever felt, and he made the right decision, he _knows_ he made the right decision, but a small, selfish part of him finds the truth inexpressibly impossible to admit.

But he _did_.

He made the right decision.

He made the decision to stay away, and he made the decision to never come back, and he knows beyond a shadow of a goddamn doubt that it was the right one.

Because the boy—the _man_ —in front of him has a future, one so bright it positively dazzles.

And no matter how hard he looks, Silver can't see any place for himself within it.


End file.
